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Vol. 18. No. 866. Feb. 18, 1887. Annual Subscription, iSO.Qf'. 

MIGNON 


BY 


MRS. FORRESTER 

Author of “ FAIR WOMEN,” “ ONCE AGAIN, 
Etc., Etc. 


Entered at the Post Office, N. Y . as second-class matter. 
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HENRY GEORGE’S LATEST WORK 


Protection or Free Trafle ? 

k-i EXAMINATION OF THE TARIFF QUESTION WITH ESPECIAL REGARD 
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XXX. Conclusion. 


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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 


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HEW YORK. 


MIGNON 


BY 


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AUTHOR OP “fair WOMEN,” “ MY ETC., ETC 

VfUU:> - 1^ ' .V 

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MRS. FORRESTER’S WORKS 


CONTAINED IN LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 

NO. PRICE. 

760 Fair Women, 20c. 

818 Once Again, 20c. 

843 My Lord and My Lady, ....... 20c. 

844 Dolores, . 20c. 

845 I Have Lived and Loved, ...... 20c. 

850 My Hero, . 20c. 

859 Viva, 20c. 

860 Omnia Vanitas, ....... . ^oc. 

861 Diana Carew, ......... 20c. 

862 From Olympus to Hades, ...... 20c. 

863 Rhona, .......... 20c. 

864 Roy and Viola, 20c. 

865 June, 20c. 

866 Mignon, ......... 20c. 

867 A Young Man^s Fancy, ....... 20c. 


/ 


i 


MIGNON. 

BY MRS. FORRESTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

It is afternoon of the — th of June. Mrs. Stratheden is ‘‘at 
home.” 

But Mrs. Stratheden’s “at homes” are very different from the 
general run of those vapid and dreary entertainments (Heaven 
save the mark!) that are made nowadays to do duty for more 
genial and costly hospitality. Men go to them, yes, actually 
men; not decrepit old fellows nor unfledged youths, but men — 
the sort of men you see in club windows, on four-in-hands, at St. 
Stephen’s and elsewhere. The State, the Bar, the Army, are 
represented in her drawing-rooms, and, very occasionally, the 
Church. There is one pleasant-faced, cheery-mannered divine 
of most eloquent tongue and practical good sense, who thinks a 
half-hour now and then not at all ill spent at one of these 
reunions. 

People do not come here as they do to most “ at homes,” think- 
ing it an awful bore and resolving to get away again as soon as 
possible; and indeed" who would not rather be rolling through 
the pleasant cheery streets in their carriage than crushing toi- 
lets and rubbing angry shoulders in a social bear-garden in the 
struggle to catch the hostess’ eye — poor bewildered woman! — 
that she may know they have not neglected to honor her recep- 
tion. Reception! there is not one Englishwoman in five hundred 
who know’s how to receive, far less to entertain. I should doubt 
if there are ten women in London who could invite fifty people 
to an “afternoon” and send them all away pleased and satisfled. 

I should be sorry to be asked to put my hand upon the nine; 
but Mrs. Stratheden would be the tenth, or rather, perhaps, the 
flrst. To begin with, she did not issue cards for a series of days, 
as the common practice is, but sent a separate invitation for 
every reception and had the happy knack of asking the right 
people to meet each other. Few houses could be better adapted 
for an “at home” than hers. It was not a hundred miles from 
Mayfair, and it teas, literally and truly, a “ bijou residence,” 
strikingly unlike what auctioneers love to designate by that tak- 
ing title. A “ bijou residence,” being translated, usually means 


2 


mONON. 


a poky, inconvenient little house, destitute of every comfort and 
convenience, and not improbably “giving” on a mews from the 
back windows. Agents would undoubtedly have called this a 
mansion. 

It had six bo7ia fide reception-rooms — dining-room, library, 
billiard -room, two drawing-rooms entirely separate, and a bou- 
doir. There was therefore no difficulty in distributing the 
guests. Mrs. Stratheden received in one drawing-room; in the 
other there was always music. She did not depend upon her 
friends, but had professionals — not eminent artists who sang 
their highly-paid song amidst a compulsory hush and rushed 
away again immediately, but singers who, if not of a wide celeb- 
rity, invariably gave pleasure and satisfaction. One was a young 
man who sang French songs charmingly and played the newest 
and most popular waltzes; the other was a girl with the sweetest 
voice imaginable who sang English ballads. Stray couples 
found their way to the boudoir, to admire the perfect taste of its 
arrangement, or to look at the photographs, or — into each other’s 
eyes. The billard-room was very popular — there were so many 
nooks and corners in it and the click of the balls made low-toned 
conversations easy to the speakers and inaudible to would-be 
listeners. There were whist-tables in the library, if any one 
cared to play. In the dining-room, neat-handed Phillis and a 
coadjutor served tea, coffee, strawberries-and-cream and ices, 
and wine and liquors to the stronger sex. Their lady did not 
number many tea-drinking men among her acquaintance. 

On this — th of June, then, Mrs. Stratheden is receiving. Let 
me show her to you as she stands, a slim hand outstretched, 
greeting with evident pleasure a man who has just entered. 
Look at her well: she has a considerable part to play in this 
story, and her history is a very strange one. Not a beautiful 
woman! no one would ever call her that, for her charm is chiefly 
dependent upon expression. She is gracious, elegant, and has 
as much vivacity as is compatible with being “ grande daine. 
jiisqiCau bout des ongles.^’’ A face that would never simper from 
a “ Keepsake” nor a “ Book of Beauty.” but might be engraved 
on more than one man's heart. How old ? Old enough to know' 
the w^orld thoroughly — to have gauged the depth of its woes, tlie 
shallows of its pleasures, the vanity of its aspirations, the false- 
ness of its illusions. How young? Young enough to attract 
love and admiration; young enough for it to be possible that the 
best of her life is still lying in the future. 

Many men have loved, many w^omen hated her, and yet, 
strange to tell, no whisper of scandal has ever left its dulling 
breath upon the mirror of her fair fame. Few women live so 
free, so unrestrained a life, but no one suspects her of abusing 
her position; it is an enigma that has ceased to be one because 
the world has gi*own accustomed to it. Women assign as a 
reason her coldness ; men say — nay, I think they exercise the 
masculine virtue of reticence and say nothing. Mrs. Strathe- 
‘len is speaking: the timbre of her voice is delicious, lowr, soft 
-ind clear. 

“ Sir Tristram! how^ glad I am to see you back!” 


MIGNON. 


8 


It is pleasant to return to one’s country after a long absence, 
it is pleasant to be welcomed by a charming woman whose eyes 
are in harmony with her lips as she gives you a glad greeting. 
So thinks Sir Tristram. 

“ And I,” he answers, “ am delighted to see you again. How 
well you are looking! Not a day older, and as charming as 
ever!” 

You have not lost your civilized little habit of saying pleas- 
ant things in the wilds,” she smiles. “ I am dying to hear 
all about your travels. I tried very hard to persuade Mr. 
Conyngham to bring you to dine with me to-night, but men, 
some men ” (glancing maliciously at the third member of the 
group) “ are so selfish. He said he must have you to himself to- 
night.” 

I admit the soft impeachment,” laughs Mr. Conyngham. “ I 
am a confirmed, inveterate bachelor, and that genius is pro- 
verbially selfish. If I could have given him up to any one, it 
would have been to you.” 

When you come and dine with me?” Mrs. Stratheden 
asks Sir Tristram. ‘‘ I want you quite alone. Alone, you know, 
means Mrs. Forsyth and myself.” 

*‘Oh, any night,” he answers. “I shall be only too de- 
lighted. To-morrow, though, I have to go into Surrey to 
see my new property. By the way, did you hear that my 
crotchety old uncle, whom I never saw, had left me his estate 
there?” 

“ I saw it in the Illustrated, and was delighted. I congratulate 
you. Not ” (smiling) “ that you were much in need of it.” 

“ I am afraid I was ungrateful enough to think it rather a bore 
when the news reached me,” says Sir Tristram. “It is an addi- 
tional responsibility, of course.” 

“ Hand it over to me, my dear fellow,” interrupts his friend. 
“ I should not feel the gene of that sort of responsibility in the 
least.” 

“ I shall not be back until late to-morrow night,” Sir Tristram 
continues, addressing Mrs. Stratheden. 

“ And I dine out to-morrow and Wednesday,” she answers. 
“ Shall it be Thursday ?” 

“ Yes; on Thursday I shall be charmed.” 

“And you will tell me all about India, China, and Mexico?” 
laughs Mrs. Stratheden; 

“ ‘ Of moving accidents by flood and fleld, 

And of the cannibals that each other eat, 

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders.’ 

“ In your thre6 years of travel you must have seen almost as 
much as Othello.” 

“ And you will be Desdemona?” says Sir Tristram, playfully. 

“ Fancy a dark, middle-aged Desdemona!” she laughs. “ I 
saw such an one once at a country theater, and it made me 
laugh inordinately. No! but I mean to find you a fair, young 
one; for it is not to be supposed that you will be allowed to 
remain a bachelor much longer.” 


4 


MIGNON, 


“ Thank Heaven, it is not worth any one’s while to insist on 
marrying me!” interposes Mr. Conyngham, with a wry face. 

At this moment other guests are announced, and the two men 
make way for them. 

"‘Come into the music-room,” whispers Mr. Conyngham, and 
Sir Tristram follows him. ( 

As they enter, a slight dark girl is singing an old English , 
ballad very sweetly to a considerable and evidently appreciative 
audience. When it is finished, Sir Tristram finds himself the ' 
center of a group of old friends and acquaintances, who greet 
him with evident pleasure. When at last Mr. Conyngham sue- * 
ceeds in carrying him off, he is booked for about a dozen enter- 
tainments of different kinds. 

‘‘What a thing it is to be rich and titled!” says his friend, 
with latent sarcasm. 

“ You old cynic!” replies Sir Tristram, gayly. “ Is that why 
you are so fond of me?” 

“ I want to show you the boudoir — the most perfect woman’s 
room I was ever in. We shall probably drop upon a stray couple 
of lovers; but they won’t take any notice of us if we don’t of 
them.” 

He pushes open the door, and discloses two young people 
seated on a couch. The man looks up with a real English stare 
which says, plainly, •‘ What the deuce do you mean by your im- 
pertinence in disturbing me ?” but it gives way to quite a differ- 
ent expression when he recognizes the intruder. 

“ Sir Tristram! is it you ? I did not know you were back. I’m 
awfully glad to see you.” 

“Raymond I’Estrange?” utters Sir Tristram, half in doubt. 

“ Why, my dear boy, I should not have known you. You are 
big enough for a Life Guardsman!” And he shakes him warmly 
by the hand. 

“ What a handsome fellow!” he thinks to himself. “ He was 
always a good-looking boy; but I never dreamed of his turning 
into this.” 

“ Then of course you would not have known me,” interrupts * 
an arch voice, and the prettiest, most piquante, mignonne 
creature jumps up off the sofa and joins the group. 

“ Not Kitty — not Miss Fox!” ejaculates Sir Tristram. 

“Yes. Kitty Fox.” 

“ By Jove!” he cries, with a glance of mingled admiration and 
affection at the gold-framed cherub face upturned to him. 

It only wants one glance to see that this is the most arch, mis- 
chievous, impertinent little sprite in the world. 

“ And last time I saw you,” continued Sir Tristram, “ I res- 
cued you and yards of torn frock from an apple-tree, whilst your 
poor governess stood bathed in tears at the foot.” 

“ Yes, by Jove, it's me!” she retorts, with glee; “and I’m out! 
I’m seventeen and three-quarters; I was presented this season, 
and I’m going to get married before it’s over. I don’t mean to 
remain a drug in the market, I can tell you.” 

“ Pray,” asked Sir Tristram, laughing, “ is it any use my put- 


MIONON. 5 

ting ill a claim ? But I suppose you think Fm old enough to be 
your grandfather ?” 

‘‘Oh, no, I won’t have you,” she says, her eyes dancing with 
fun. “ You are too nice; and I mean to bully my husband. It’s 
so vulgar to be fond of each other nowadays. And I’m not going 
to marry Raymond, though you did find us in such suspicious 
proximity just now; he has the most awful temper, and we should 
lead a cat-and-dog life.” 

“ How should I suit you. Miss Kitty?” inquires Mr. Conyng- 
ham. 

“ Very well indeed, as far as not caring for you goes,” retorts 
the impertinent minx; “ but you haven’t enough money.” 

“Every misfortune has its consolations,” he says, making her 
a little bow. 

“ You mean that to be ‘ sarcastical,’ ” she laughs. “ Fortu- 
nately for me, I am very stupid, and don’t understand your dark 
sayings.” 

“ How’s the colonel, Kitty?” interrupts Sir Tristram. “ I sup- 
pose I must call you Miss Fox, though, now.” 

“ Not worth while, as I don’t mean to be Miss Fox much 
longer. Oh, papa’s very well. Playing whist in the library- I 
think. He’ll be delighted to see you (if he isn’t in the middle 
of a rubber). Let’s go and find him.” 

“ How is your mother, Raymond?” asks Sir Tristram, as they 
descend the stairs. “ Is she in town?” 

“Yes, and about the same as usual. I hope you’ll come and 
see her soon. She’ll be so awfully glad to see you.” 

“To be sure I will. Give her my love, and say Fll call to- 
morrow, no, not to-morrow; the next day.” 

Ten minutes later Sir Tristram and Mr. Conyngham emerge 
from Mrs. Stratheden’s house and wend their way Piccadilly- 
ward. 

If you wanted to exhibit to a foreigner a perfect type of an 
English gentleman, you would probably (had you known him) 
have selected Sir Tristram Bergholt for your specimen. No 
longer a young man, yet not too old to be pleasing to women, 
frank-mannered but lacking nothing of dignity, courteous, 
well-bred, utterly devoid of slanginess (the fashion and the taint 
of the age), refined without affectation, genial, generous, kind- 
hearted. Proud, perhaps, but only proud in the right way — 
proud of sustaining the honor of his house, too proud to be guilty 
of a meanness, proud in resenting impertinent familiarity; not 
proud, as is the fashion nowadays, of the bare possession of a 
title and wealth and using them, as is too often the case, to pro- 
cure unworthy indulgence or to cover mean or base actions. 

Without being strictly handsome, he is particularly good- 
looking and has a thoroughly distinguished air. His six-and- 
forty years sit lightly on him; there are not a great many silver 
hairs among his brown locks, nor has time as yet traced a very 
elaborate pattern about his brow or mouth; his handsome gray 
eyes are full of brightness and vivacity; his teeth are strong and 
white. A man “ in the prime of life,” most people would have 
said. 


6 


MIGNOK 


Fred Conyngham, the one great friend of his life, is rather 
younger, but looks years older. He has a plain, shrewd face, 
and looks what he is, a thorough man of the world. A skeptic, 
with a vein of cynicism, a strong sense of humor, as much 
seltishness as goes to the making of a man of the. world, a caustic 
wit, and really and truly, though he is very much ashamed of 
and would not admit it, a kind heart. He loves Sir Tristram 
nearly as well as himself, and better than any other living 
human being. 

“ What a wonderful woman that is!” says Sir Tristram. 
“ What a charming house! what perfect taste she has!” 

'‘Perfect,” assents his friend. “You have not seen it be- 
fore? No! she took it just after you went abroad^ It was a 
very different- looking place then, but she got a long lease and 
has almost rebuilt it.” 

“ And yet,” says Sir Tristram, thoughtfully, “ she does not 
look a happy woman. I wish she would marry some nice 
fellow,” 

“Pshaw! she has everything she wants, and is sensible enough 
not to give any one the chance of making her miserable. She 
married once to some purpose, and now, like a wise woman, is 
content to rest upon her laurels.” 

“Nonsense, lYed! you can’t call going through a ceremony 
with a fellow on his death-bed, marrying.” 

“ Can’t you? by Jove! Anyhow, the ceremony you speak of 
with such contempt converted her from a penniless girl into a 
charming widow with any quantity of thousands a year. The 
odd part of it is she has all the aplomb and dignity of a mar- 
ried woman. It always takes an effort of memory on my part 
to remember her real story.” 

“ Poor Olga!” ejaculates Sir Tristram; “ she might have made 
some fellow very happy.” 

And as it is,” retorts his friend, “ she extends her beneficence 
to a hundred. Her cook and cellar are perfect, and a good many 
men would like to hang their hats up at No. 1000.” 

“Do you think there are not lots of fellows who would 
marry Olga Stratheden without a penny ?” cries Sir Ti'istram, 
warmly, 

“ Can’t say,” returns Fred Conyngham, with a cynical twist 
of his mouth. “Fortunately for her, they haven’t jbeen put to 
the test. I tnink the tender passion is greatly augmented in 
our selfish breasts when the fair object of it has as many adven- 
titious adjuncts as Mrs. Stratheden.” 

“ Fred, I am ashamed of you! You don't believe in anything, 
you old reprobate!” 

“Yes, I do. I believe in my appetite and my digestion. 
When either of those fail me, faith will be a word of empty 
sound in my ears.” 

“ Where do we dine? — Boodle’s or the Wyndham?” 

“ Neither. I have a little surprise for you. I am sick of 
clubs, especially this time of year. We are going to dine at 
home. Here we are!” 


MIGNON. 


T 


CHAPTER II. 

“ I follow a more easy and, in my opinion, a wiser course, namely, to 
inveigh asrainst the levity of the female sex, their fickleness, their double 
dealing, their rotten promises, their broken faith; and, finall}^ their 
want of judgment in bestowing their affections. These, gentlemen, are 
my reasons for the discourse you heard me address to my goat, whom 
(because she is a female) I despise, although she be the best of the fold.” 

Cervantes. 

Mr. Conyngham takes out his latch-key and opens the door 
of a pleasant-looking liouse in Piccadilly, facing the Green Park. 
He precedes his friend up two flights of stairs and throws open 
the door of a large, airy room. 

“ This is a great improvement upon your last quarters,” re- 
marks Sir Tristram, as he enters. 

Yes. I begin to feel the want of a home now. Club life is 
dull and lonely after a certain time: one’s contemporaries get 
married or die. 

‘‘ ‘ Marriage and death and division 
Make barren our lives.’ 

I get a better dinner at home, and don’t have to wait for it, and 
I like to sit at my window afterward and smoke. I’ve got used 
to the noise, and the look-out over the park is charming. 

The room is a thorough man’s room. By that I do not mean 
a young man’s room such as has been described by the novelist 
ad nauseam — an assemblage of foils, whips, guns, boxing-gloves, 
cigar-chests, etc., etc., mixed up with pictures of favorite racers 
and sirens more or less lightly clad; but I mean the room of a 
man who has outgrown the swagger and affectations of boy- 
hood, and settled down into a steady-going, respectable member 
of society. Fred Conyngham’s room is the perfection of neat- 
ness and comfort; everything is handsome, solid, and useful; 
there is nothing “ gim-crack ” throughout its length and breadth. 
The only indication that its owner is a votary of “ Ze sport ” is 
the neat mahogany gun-case fastened to the wall, through the 
glass windows of which you may behold two pairs of workman- 
^ like-looking breech-holders and a duck-gun. A large, well-filled 
’ bookcase occupies two-thirds of one wall, a writing-table that 
holds everything a writer could possibly want stands near the 
window, an inviting sofa and various easy -chairs court repose, 
there are stands for newspapers and magazines, a handsome 
mahogany what-not and one or two cupboards happily combin- 
ing the useful with the ornamental. . Of hona fide ornament 
there is very little: a magnificent clock and pair of bronzes on 
the mantel-piece, some genuine old brass dogs on the hearth, a 
few bright, charming pictures on the wall, of whose . value the 
names on the frame are sufficient guarantee, and the catalogue 
of ornament is finished. 

The table is laid for dinner. Every appointment — damask, 
plate, glass — is perfect. In the center stauds a bowl of roses 
which do not in the least look as though they had come from the 
green-grocer’s, as indeed they have not. Truth to tell, they were 


8 


MIGNON. 


plucked only this morning by a fair maid’s fingers in a garden 
not twenty miles from London, where gi*een willows dip their 
feathery branches into the Thames and past whose bank proud, 
graceful swans sail. Fred has friends among that sex which he 
loves to revile. 

‘ ‘ I see you have become a confirmed old bachelor since I left 
England,” says Sir Tristram, as they return from an inspection 
of the rest of Mr. Conyngham’s “ appartement.’’^ 

“ Confirmed,” replies the other. “ As I told Mrs. Stratheden, 
thank Heaven it is not worth any one’s while to insist on mar 
rying me.” 

“ And yet,” says Sir Tristram, refiectively, “ I am not sure if 
one had a nice wife ” 

“ If!” retorts Fred; “ that is about the biggest if you can well 
pitch upon. Well, I suppose you will have to come to it sooner 
or later; but give me my dinner of herbs with peace — or, better 
still, a stalled ox with peace. I don’t know why the two should 
be incompatible. Come! here’s our stalled ox, or a bit of him, 
in the soup-tureen. I don’t know how you feel, but I don’t eat 
lunch and am quite' ready for my dinner. Here’s the meriu. I 
won’t answer for the spelling; but inditt'erent English is better 
than bad French, in my opinion,” 

The dinner is of the choicest, everything is cooked to perfec- 
tion, the champagne iced to a turn, and Mr. Conyngham’s serv- 
ant is as quick and ndiseless as a slave in an Eastern tale. 

The great event of tbe day is over, and the two friends are 
placidly smoking theif cigars by the open window. Sir Tristram 
is complimenting Fred upon his cook. 

“ Quite a cordon hleuf he says, with a smile. 

Not so bad,” Fred answers, a conscious smile widening his 
mobile lips. 

“ Not so bad! By Jove! I’ll answer that no two men in Lon- 
don have dined better than you and I to-night. Where did you 
pick her up ?” 

“ D'Aubray sent her me from Paris.” 

“ A Frenchwoman!” 

“ No, but she learned her art there.” 

The days are at their longest; it is not yet dark; the rattle of 
omnibuses and cabs has subsided; conversation is no longer an 
effort. Nevertheless the pauses are frequent and of considerable 
duration, as is the case with men who are intimate enough to 
follow their inclination without feeling the necessity of playing 
at company. It is not because they have nothing to say, but, on 
the contrary, so much, that it is difficult to begin. This diffi- 
culty is not uncommon with friends who have not met for a long 
time. 

“ Tristram,” says Mr. Conyngham, after an interval of silence, 
following aloud a thought that has been occupying him, “ I’m 
afraid your doom is sealed.” 

Sir Tristram rouses himself with a little start; he too has evi 
dently been away on a mental journey. 

“ Doom!’' he echoes. “ What are you talking about, Fred?” 

“ I have observed an undercurrent of it pervading your letters 


MIGNON, 


9 


for some time,” pursues Mr. Oonyngham, “ and I have been pre- 
paring myself to meet it. You have been thinking seriously 
lately of marrying. You can’t deny it! Pshaw!” (as Sir Tristram 
hesitates) “ I knovy all about it — old property, no direct succes- 
sor. future generations unborn, etc., etc. My dear fellow, you’ve 
led a very comfortable easy-going life for forty-six years"; take 
my advice and spend the twenty -four remaining ones in peace, 
as I intend to do.” 

“Every one to his taste,” answers Sir Tristram, gayly. “ If 
you can look forward to a lonely old age with equanimity and 
find books your pleasantest companions and your dinner the only 
consideration of importance, I won’t attempt to convert you; 
but I confess, for my own part, I feel the want of something 
more. The companionship and sympathy of a bright young 
creature 

“Good heavens!” interrupts Fred, regarding him with serio- 
comic horror; “ young did you say?” 

“ You don’t suppose,” retorts Sir Tidstram, the color deepen- 
ing in his bronzed cheek — “you don’t suppose I am going to 
marry an old one! My own age, for instance?” 

“There are degrees. You wouldn’t surely be fool enough to 
marry a girl of seventeen or eighteen. Why, when you are an 
old fellow of sixty, she will be one-and-thirty, just in her prime. 
Now, my dear old boy, vanity never was your weak point, and 
you always had a very fair share of common sense: do you sup- 

E ose that a handsome young woman (of course you intend her to 
e handsome) is likely to be satisfied with the battered remains 
of what has been a fine man ?” 

“ Hang it, Fred,” cries Sir Tristram, laughing, though not 
particularly pleased, “ I have not come to battered remains yet, 
I hope. However, it is rather premature to discuss the subject. 
I have not been in England a week; and I certainly have not 
seen any one, so far, whom I feel inclined to ask to be Lady 
Bergholt.” 

“ Hark ye, Tristram,” says his friend; “ I want to have a little 
serious conversation with you. Your feelings are not engaged 
so far, therefore my task won’t be quite so hard. Although you 
are a man of the world and have seen a good deal of life, you 
were always rather an ingenuous and unsuspicious youth, added 
to which you have been out of your own country for three years, 
and you have not the least idea how the honorable estate of 
matrimony has deteriorated and been degraded in that time. 
Marriage is the curse of nine-tenths of men nowadays. In the 
good old time, when women were keepers at home, when they 
sewed and spun with their maids, prepared conserves and con- 
fectionery, physicked the poor, and ‘ made their own souls,’ it 
may have been a bearable institution — though I expect female 
tongues were as shrill and female tempers had as many angles 
as now; but to-day, when women only take a husband as an irk- 
some appendage to freedom, to unbounded extravagance and 
unbridled license of behavior. Heaven help the poor fool who 
runs his head into that noose! Look around you, Tristram, be- 
fore you take a step from which there is no return but through 


10 


MIGNOK 


a shameful gate, and when you see a poor wretch writhing under 
the fetters he has manacled himself with, say, ‘ There, but for 
my friend Fi’ed, goes Tristram Bergholt.’ Women are not what 
they were, though for the matter of that nothing is. Don’t 
talk to me about the doctrine of perfectibility! — as far as I can 
see, everything is going to the dogs as fast as it can. Look 
at the army! I’m not a soldier, but I know deuced well 
what these new systen>s and pretended economies are bring 
ing it to. If the British tax-payer doesn’t have to put his hand 
into his pocket twice over to make up for it, I shall be very much 
astonished. I saw a batch of recruits the other day. Pah! it 
made me positively ill: no chests, no legs, no stamina, no height, 
no anything there ought to have been. Navy not much better. 
As to the lower classes. Heaven help us! what with school- 
board education, what with cheap papers, with unprincipled 
ruffians persuading them that they are equal to their masters 
and better, what with strikes, high wages, emigration, etc., by 
Jove! we sha’n’t have any lower orders soon. Oh, for the good 
old Tory days, when betwixt class and class there was a great 
gulf fixed, when a servant looked up to his master and ‘the 
maiden to the hand of her mistress,’ when every family had its 
faithful old servants, a thing tliat, mark my words, won’t exist 
in the next generation, Tristram.” 

“ I am afraid they are dying out,” he assents. 

“ When you go into a shop now,” continues Fred, “ you are 
served by ‘ young ladies ’ and ‘ gentlemen.’ I don’t so much 
mind an elegant young female, be-fiounced and be paniered, 
tripping up to one with a condescending smile; but when a 
wretch of my own sex minces up to me in a frock-coat and a 
crimson tie, with his perfumed handkerchief and perhaps a 
flower in his buttonhole, a Cain-like feeling comes over me, and 
I thirst for his blood.” 

Sir Tristram laughs. 

“The garrulity of age is creeping over you, Fi*ed,” he says. 
“You began with matrimony, and you have wandered off, 
Heaven knows where.” 

“I’ll go back,” returns Fred, promptly. “We have all the 
night before us, and I feel as though the mantle of Juvenal had 
fallen upon me and I could gO on for hours lashing the vices of 
the age. Back to the women! Don’t you remember when we 
were young men, Tristram, how different society was ? A fast 
married woman was a very rare thing; you hardly ever saw one 
dance a round dance. Indeed, young fellows never thought of 
inviting them, except as a sort of civility in return fc.r hospital- 
ity. The young matrons used to sit and look on with kind sym- 
pathy and interest at the girls; they had had their day. Now, 
if you please, the girls are the wallflowers and the married 
women their bitterest and most implacable rivals. Why, the 
other night the Reds gave a ball and there were only two unmar- 
ried women asked. What business have women who have hus- 
bands of their own, I should like to know, with other men’s 
arms around their waists, other men’s breath in their faces, with 
their flii’ting^^and whisperings, their oglings and meetings! Then 


MIGNON, 


11 


their extravagance! Why, our motliers thought a good deal of 
a couple of new silk gowns a year, and had perhaps a velvet 
and a moire antique as standing dishes, but novv’ the number of 
dresses that a woman of moderate income thinks it necessary to 
have is enough to make your hair stand on an end. You know 

Charlie D . has about two thousand a year, which he 

augments now and then by a little judicious horse-dealing, and 
his wife had four new dresses for Ascot last week, besides even- 
ing toilets and a gorgeous dressing-gown for the smoking- 
room. Begad! one can hardly wonder at the women, when the 
men make such asses and mountebanks of themselves. Brocade 
coats and trousers lined with pink or blue quilted satin to smoke 
in, and their monograms in gold on their slippers. Bah!” 
And Fred’s countenance is a sight to see. “ Well, little Mrs. 
D informed me with great glee about her four marvel- 

ous toilets, and kindly offered me a siglit of them, but as I 
declined, she insisted on describing them. Three came from 
Paris, and the fourth from the most extravagaiit woman in Lon- 
don.” 

“ I wonder how poor Charlie will look when he gets the bill,” 
remarks Sir Tristram. 

“ H’m!” says Fred, following the thin stream of smoke that is 
making its way from his lips to the window, “ these are odd 
times, when a man may think himself fortunate if he is asked 
to pay his wdfe’s bills. It seems to me the only reputation 
women want to have (a good many of them) is a bad one.” 

“ Fred,” cries Sir Ti’istram, “ I am not going to be demoralized! 
— if you are a cynical old misogamist, you shall not pervert me 
into one. I confess it, I want to marry; and as you keep kindly 
reminding me I have not much time to lose, I shall take the 
earliest opportunity of presenting my wife to you (after I have 
found her). Marriage is a lottery; we all know that trite old 
saying by heart. I believe it's the happiest state in the world if 
things work reasonably well. Why, what the deuce! I’m not an 
ogre; I feel as full of life and health as I ever did. I can give 
my wife most things that satisfy a woman moderately easy to 
please; why should I not make her happy, and she me ?” 

Ah!” returns Conyngham, “ I too have my ideas of how mar- 
riage could and should be the happiest state in the world; but 
they would be laughed to scorn nowadays as old-fashioned, ex- 
ploded, impossible.” 

“ I should like to hear them,” says Sir Tristram. 

“ To begin with, I would not marry a woman under the age of 
three or four-and-twenty (I mean if I were ten or fifteen years 
younger than I am). At that age she ought to have attained as 
much perfection physically and mentally as she is capable of. 
Only conceive to yourself the mischief — moral, social, physical — 
of making a little romp of seventeen, like Kitty Fox, the head of 
your house, the keeper of your honor, the mother of your chil- 
dren! And yet she was perfectly serious this afternoon when 
she told you that she meant to marry before the season was over. 
Marriage" means to her and the girls of her set, not an awful re- 
sponsibility, not the sealing of her doom for hfe and for eternity 


MiGNO^. 


n 

(if there is one), but the means of throwing off all restraint, of 
being unlimitedly fast, of eclipsing her friends by the splendor 
of her dress and the number of her lovers.” 

‘‘Come, come, Fred, you are exaggerating! For my own 
part, I do not see why a woman should not be well dressed and 
admired after her marriage as well as before. Why, you con- 
founded old Turk, I believe you would like to shut them all up and 
only let them go about veiled.” 

“ No, certainly not. The only veil I would have should be 
their own sense of modesty and propriety.” 

“ I should like my wife to be charming and to entertain my 
friends,” says Sir Tristram. 

“So should I; but there are different ways of charming and 
entertaining. You don’t want her to entertain them by flirting 
with them and letting them make open love to her behind your 
back! Good heavens! the state of society is such now that they 
would probably do it before your face. You don’t want her to 
turn every acquaintance into an object of distrust and suspicion, 
and your bosom friend into the man you may some day shoot, 
or want to.” 

“ Stuff and humbug!” says Sir Tristram. “ You are afflicted 
with a moral jaundice, Fred. Now go back from women as you 
say they are to your ideal woman.” 

“ ‘ I came too late into a world too old,’ ” 

quotes Conyngham, with a grim laugh. “ I doubt if I could 
find her now. Well, the ideal woman is to be on the right side 
of five-and-twenty. By that time she ought to be old enough 
to know her own mind, to have fixed her wandering fancy, and 
to be sure what sort of man is likely to make her happy.” 

“ But suppose she cannot get him?” 

“ Don’t interrupt. Once married, if she is as lovely as Venus, 
she will not care for nor accept, far less try to win, the admira- 
tion of any man but her husband. She will rule his house 
with prudence and discretion, bring up his children to be good 
and useful members of society, she will be religious without 
being bigoted (if such a thing is possible for a woman).” 

“ Why, Fred, you old skeptic! I thought ” 

“An irreligious woman is a monstrosity. All women are 
superstitious; and therefore it is as well they should believe in 
something that can do them and society no harm, but may, on 
the contrarv, do a great deal of good.” 

“Well?”' 

“ Well, if she is not frivolous — which the ideal woman would 
of course not be — she wull have plenty of time, without neglect- 
ing her children and household, to cultivate her mind and to 
make herself a pleasant, intelligent companion for her husband, 
and capable of charming and entertaining his friends as you 
would have her do.” 

“ The ideal woman is a prig,” says Sir Tristram, rising, with a 
laugh, “and you are very welcome to her, for my part= Of 
rhe two, I would rather have. little Kitty Fox.” 

“Ephraim is joined to his idols: let him alone!” ejaculates 


MIGNON, 


13 


Fred. Well, I would have warned you, but you would not let 
me. Don’t come puling to me when it’s too late. Now, then, 
tell me something about your travels.” 


CHAPTER III, 

“ Her face more fair 

Than sudden-singing April in soft lands: 
****** 

There no touch of sun or fallen rain 
That ever fell on a more gracious thing.’’ 

Sioinhirne. 

Sm Tristram is on his way to visit his new possession. He 
has been detained by business all the morning, and the afternoon 
is considerably advanced before he arrives at the Warren. He 
has elected to" come incognito and without giving notice to the 
housekeeper in charge. So he leaves the fly that has brought 
him to the station at the tumble-down village inn, and does the 
rest of the thousand yards to the lodge-gates on foot. 

It is a bright, hot day, but delicious airs come floating across 
the common, airs straight from heaven, airs that have never 
been Altered through other human lungs but come to him pure 
and virginal, perfumed with the faint wax -like odors of gorse 
and the aromatic scent of the firs. On his left is the long belt of 
trees that skirts his park, and before him a great expanse of 
common, dotted here and there with clumps of firs. 

Wave upon wave of golden-yellow gorse and broom floats be- 
fore his eyes, mingled with the pink of budding heather. Sir 
Tristram looks at the scene with a feeling of complacency; he is 
no longer bored by the sense of the “ additional responsibility.” 

“ What a delicious air!” he says, taking off his hat, and letting 
the breeze play softly over the dark, close-shorn locks that as 
yet time has not thinned. “ A charming view! only wants one 
thing — water. No scene can be perfect without that!” 

The lodge which stands at the entrance-gate looks dreary and 
deserted; it is evidently untenanted. He opens the gate and ad- 
mits himself. The drive is sadly neglected and grass-grown; 
the trees and evergreens that skirt the path on either side are 
rankly luxuriant, and need to be pruned with no sparing Hand. 
A fine cock pheasant runs across the road in front of him, and he 
counts a dozen little white scuts bobbing up and down among 
the bracken. “ By Jove! that looks well!” he thinks, with the 
keen pleasure of a genuine sportsman. Presently he arrives at a 
spot wh3re two ways meet, and pauses for a moment in uncer- 
tainty. A ringing laugh falls upon his ear, the laugh of a sweet, 
full young voice; it is joined in and swiftly drowned by two 
louder ones. 

“ There is some one of wiiom I can ask my way,” he thinks, 
proceeding in the direction of the voices. In another moment 
he comes upon a group which the thick branches of the ever- 
greens have till now hidden from his sight. He stands mute 
before one of the most charming pictures in the world. A 
young girl is sitting on the topmost rail of a five-barred gate. 


14 


MIGNON. 


Her hat has fallen off, and her golden hair is all smitten through 
with the broad sunbeams that glint between the sparsely-cov- 
ered branches of an ancient oak. One long curl has escaped, 
and falls far below her waist. She is the loveliest creature, 
thinks Sir Tristram, who has visited many lands, that his eyes 
have ever yet fallen upon. At her feet is a good-looking boy of 
some eighteen or nineteen, on one knee, an arm aloft holding 
a cabbage-leaf full of big strawberries. Another boy, strikingly 
like the girl, leans laughing against the tree's trunk. ‘‘ Accept. 

O queen ” begins the kneeling youth, but at this moment 

they all simultaneously catch sight of Sir Tristram’s smiling 
face. 

The youthful gallant springs to his feet, red as the straw- 
berries which he in his confusion scatters among the long grass: 
but the girl sits quite still, only a fair faint blush deepens in her 
lovely face. 

“ I beg you ten thousand pardons,'’ says Sir Tristram, taking 
off his hat and addressing her, “ will you kindly tell me the way 
to the house ? — there are two roads, and I am uncertain which to 
take.” 

“ That leads to the house,” she answers, pointing to the road 
on the right: “ this goes to the garden and stable.” 

Her voice is perfectly self-possessed; there is neither mauvaise 
honte nor boldness in it, nor does she seem to feel any unpleas- 
ant consciousness of the position in which she has been dis- 
covered. 

His question answered, what is there for Sir Tristram to do but 
to thank her and go? And yet he would fain stay. But, find- 
ing no excuse, betakes one more look at her lovely face and goes. 

“ Entre or et roux 
Dieu tit ses lougs cheveux,” 

he murmurs, as he wends his way up the avenue, and ever after- 
ward when he thinks of her those two lines flit through his brain. 
Ere long he comes upon an old-fashioned house, built in gothic 
style and overgrown by rank luxuriant creepers. It looks as de- 
serted as a haunted castle in a fairy tale. The front door is ajar, 
and he enters without ringing. He finds himself in a good-sized 
hall furnished like a room, with heavy lumbering old furniture, 
and carpeted with a threadbare Turkey carpet. Cases of stuffed 
birds line most of the walls and surround the ponderous hat- 
stand that is now bare and deprived of the purpose of its exist- 
ence. He opens the door and enters the drawing-room, a mel- 
ancholy specimen of the taste of fifty years ago. The curtains 
are of dingy gray, striped with faded green; the carpet of dull 
drab is ornamented with huge bunches of impossible fiowers; a 
heavy rosewood table stands in the center of the room, and on it 
are a glass-shaded basket of uninviting wax fruit and a few dull 
books; the small oblong mirror that graces the chimney-piece is 
protected by yellow muslin; an ancient and high-backed piano 
stands in one corner. All the furniture is solid, ugly, unshapely. 
Sir Tristram, walks to the window and looks out on the deserted 
garden. He iiees in a moment its capabilities for being made 


MIGNON, 


15 


charming; he notes where a glade may be cut through yon 
tangle of trees, giving a lovely peep at the distant common; in 
his mind’s eye, carpenters, upholsterers, gardeners are already 
at work making the gloomy old place into a paradise. He turns, 
and crosses the hall to the room opposite. It is, as he conject- 
ures, the dining-room. If possible, it looks more desolate than 
its vis-a-vis. A faded carpet, moreen curtains that have once 
been red, huge hideous mahogany furniture, covered with worn 
out leather, some dingy old portraits, and a dark lookout on a sea 
of evergreens that are running rampant and unpruned at their 
i own sweet will. 

“ We will make a clean sweep of all these,” says their new lord 
to himself, “and let in the light and air. Faugh! it smells 
like a vault! My poor old uncle must have had strange tastes.” 

He remarks, however, with satisfaction, that everything is 
scrupulously clean and neat. 

A door opens from the dining-room into another room; he 
turns the handle, and finds himself face to face with a fine, 
gentlemanlike-looking man. The latter grasps the situation at 
once. 

“ Sir Tristram Bergholt, I presume?” he says. “ I fear I must 
seem in the light of an intruder, but Mr. Tristram always al- 
lowed me the range of the library, and ” 

“It is I who am the intruder,” returns Sir Tristram, in his 
pleasant courteous manner. “ I dislike fuss and preparation, 
and thought it would be pleasanter to run down quietly and 
take my first look.” 

“ Poor Mrs. Bence will be in a great state of mind at not being 
allowed to welcome you with due state and ceremony,” says the 
stranger. “She is an excellent creature: in fact, she lived 
some years in my family, and it was I who recommended her 
to Mr. Tristram. I must introduce myself” (smiling), “ as there 
is no one else to perform the ceremony. My name is Carlyle — 
Captain Carlyle. I live opposite to you in a little cottage on the 
common; you must have passed it on your way here.” 

Sir Tristram remembers to have seen a low long house with 
gabled roof and a pretty garden full of roses and flower-beds. 
He likes the look of his neighbor, and thinks he detects a striking 
resemblance to Miss Goldenlocks on the gate. Captain Carlyle 
has had the same colored hair, though it is liberally sprinkled 
with silver now, but his face is fresh-colored, his mustache 
chestnut: in spite of his gray hair he does not look a day older 
than Sir Tristram himself. 

“ What a pity the place should have been so neglected!” re- 
marks the latter. “ My uncle, I believe, was eccentric. I never 
saw him.” 

“ Rather more than eccentric,” answers Captain Carlyle, smil- 
ing, “ For five years before his death he never allowed a stick 
of wood to be cut nor a gun to be fired on the place. It was a 
great loss to me; I used to shoot his game for him before that 
time.” 

“ I hope we shall reap the benefit of his eccentricity,” says Sir 
Tristram. 


16 


MIGNON, 


He lias taken a fancy to Captain Carlyle, and feels as if he had 
known him for years. Captain Carlyle receives the same im- 
pression of the new master of the Warren. 

“ I had a difficulty in finding my way to the -house,” says Sir 
Tristram. “ I was obliged to ask the road of a young lady.” 
This is a cunning device to get information about Miss Golden 
locks. 

“Oh! Mignon, I suppose; my youngest daughter. She came 
up with me to-day. Young puss! I fear she has made sad havoc 
among your strawberry-beds, she and her brother between 
them.” 

“ I hope they have, they are most heartily welcome.” 

“ Thanks. Are you going back to town to-night ?” 

“Yes, by the 9.30 train.” 

“After you have looked round, will you come and take pot- 
luck with us? There is no decent inn nearer than four miles; 
and I fear Mrs. Bence will not be prepared to entertain you." 

Captain Carlyle gives the invitation with the frank inconsider- 
ateness of a man, utterly unmindful of the probable condition of 
the larder at home. 

Sir Tristram accepts the invitation as frankly as it is given. 
“ Entre or et roux ''^ — the two haunting lines come back to him, 
he has a curiosity to see that golden head again. 

“I am going home now,” says Captain Carlyle. “Do you 
think you will have finished your business here in an hour ?” 

“ Thanks, yes. I am only going to take a very cursory view 
to-day.” 

“ Then I will return at six to show you the way.” 

Captain Carlyle leaves the house in a very pleasant, self-con- 
gratulatory frame of mind. 

“Charming fellow; tremendous acquisition. I hope he will 
be here a good deal. Evidently a sportsman. Glad I happened 
to be there and thought of asking him to dinner. By Jove! I 
wonder if there is anything for dinner, by the way.” 

This arriere-pensee makes the current of his thoughts a shade 
less pleasant. At this moment he comes in sight of the group 
whom Sir Tristram had surprised some half an hour earlier. The 
tableau has undergone a change now; all three are seated on the 
grass under the old tree; the scattered strawberries have been re- 
covered and demolished; nothing remains but the discarded cab- 
bage leaf. 

“ Well, I suppose you know the news,” he remarks, gayly, as 
he comes up to them. “ Sir Tristram Bergholt has arrived.” 

“ I said that was him,” cries Mignon. 

“ Heedless of grammar, they all cried, ‘ That’s him.’ ” 

spouts her twin brother, quoting from “ Ingoldsby.” 

“ And what do you think of him?” asked their father. 

“Awfully good sort, I should say,” replies Gerry Carlyle. 
“ Didn’t look at all like warning us off the premises, although he 
did catch us in flagrante delicto with his best strawberries.” 

“ Horrid old Avretch! I wish he had not come,” pouts Mignon. 
“We shall never be able to come here with any comfort now.” 


MIGNOK 


17 


“ Mignon!” exclaimed her father, sharply. ‘‘ You have not a 
very ladylike way of expressing yourself, and nothing could be 
less appropriate than your adjectives. He is the most charm- 
ing, gentlemanlike fellow I have met for an age; and as for 
being old, I do not believe he is a day more than forty.” 

“Forty!” echoes Mignon, derisively, looking at her father 
from the depths of her dark-blue eyes. “What a juvenile! 
Forty! Why that is almost as old as you, papa!” 

And Mignon throws herself back and laughs a gorge deploy ee. 
As a rule, it is not becoming, even to a pretty woman, to laugh 
heartily and unrestrainedly; but to see Mignon laugh was the 
most charming thing in the world. It made you rack your 
brain to say something droll enough to set her off again the mo- 
ment she stopped. Her lovely mouth uncurled as wide as it 
could — which was not very wide — you could count all her lovely 
pearls of teeth, and the sound of her mirth was like water 
rippling over little stones. Even her father could not but for- 
give her irreverence, seeing how lovely she looked as she was 
guilty of it. As for poor Oswald Carey, the other member of 
the group, he has looked his heart away long ago. Mignon has 
been sole empress over that organ ever since he was twelve years 
old; and right royally she uses the prerogative of her fairness in 
lording it over him and every one else who is under its sway. 

“He is coming to dine with us,” says Captain Carlyle. 
“ Gerry, run home, there’s a good fellow, and tell your mother.” 

“ Oh, papa, you are joking!” cries Mignon, looking up amazed. 
“ You know it is Tuesday; and there is never anything for din- 
ner on Tuesday.” 

“ Nonsense! what do you mean?” cries her father coloring a 
little. 

“ I heard mamma say only at lunch that there was nothing in 
the house, and that you would have to put up with bacon and 
eggs to-night.” 

Captain Carlyle’s rosy views take a gray hue: he thinks it 
more than probable that Mignon is speaking the truth. As 
usual with a man when a difficult problem of domestic economy 
has to be solved, he waxes irritable. 

“ I suppose they can contrive something,” he says, sharply. 
‘ ^ I don’t know what’s the use of a pack of girls, if they can’t 
turn their hands to something useful.” 

Mignon is the only member of the family who does not stand 
in awe of her father. 

“Well, papa,” she retorts, “if we could all of us cook, we 
couldn’t make the butcher invent a new animal, or kill on any 
day but Tuesday. I don’t see why you should make such a fuss 
over the man because he is a baronet. Why shouldn’t bacon 
and eggs do for him as well as us ?” 

“ Damn eggs and bacon!” cries her father, in an access of 
wrath. 

“He might have had some of his own strawberries, if we 
hadn’t eaten them all,” proceeds Mignon, imperturbably. “ I 
don’t suppose you could find a dozen more if you hunted the 
beds all over, Oswald: could you ?” 


V 


16 MIGNON. 

Oswald shakes his head. He is quite the enfant de f am ilU : 
there are no secrets from him. 

“ I’ll tell you what, sir,” he says. “ I’ll go off to the butcher, 
and bring something back at all events.” 

“Do, there’s a good fellow!” cries Captain Carlyle, relieved. 
“You must be quick about it, though, for there’s only an hour 
and a half to dinner.” . 

So Oswald, accompanied by Gerald, goes off at full speed to 
the butcher’s, and Captain Carlyle and Mignon wend their way 
homeward, the former’s sense of triumph at having the now 
owner of the Warren as a guest sadly impaired. 

Mrs. Carlyle and her two elder daughters are sitting together 
in the pretty little drawing-room when they enter. 

Mrs. Carlyle is a faded-looking woman with some remains of 
beauty. Her eldest daughter, Mary, has a kind, placid. Ma- 
donna-like face; the second, Regina, is handsome, haughty, dis- 
contented-looking. 

There is no time to be lost. Captain Carlyle does not waste 
his breath unnecessarily, and he is an autocrat at home. So 
he says, with outward peremptoriness though a misgiving- 
heart ' 

“ I met Sir Tristram Bergholt up at the Wan*en just now, and 
he is coming to dine here at seven.” 

If a thunderbolt had fallen in their midst, dismay could 
scarcely be more vividly pictured upon the faces of the three 
ladies to whom this curt announcement is vouchsafed. Tears 
spring to poor Mrs. Carlyle’s eyes. Much as she stands in awe 
of her husband, she cannot but feel a mild indignation against 
him for having placed her in this cruel dilemma. 

“It is impossible!” she says. “There is not a thing in the 
house. You must make some excuse; you must indeed.” 

“Excuse!” retorts the captain, irefully; “you talk like a 
child! Invite a man to dinner, forsooth, and put him off half an 
hour after!” 

Here Mignon interposes. 

“ Oswald has gone to the butcher’s, mamma. He said he 
would be sure to bring back something, I dare say he will be 
here directly with half a sheep on his back.” 

“Mutton killed this morning!” utters Mrs. Carlyle, in the ac- 
cent of profound despair. 

“ Of course you must make the worst of everything,” cries 
her husband. “ Upon my soul, it’s enough to make a man cut 
his throat to live in a house where you can’t bring any one to 
dine without calling forth a waterspout!” 

“ Papa!” says Mignon, who is of a practical turn of mind, “ I 
have heard that if a chicken is cooked as soon as it is killed it is 
quite tender.” 

“ Bravo, Mignon!” cries her father. “You are about the only 
one who has a head on her shoulders. Go and tell James to kill 
one!” 

“We had the last chicken on Sunday,” interrupts Miss Car- 
lyle; “ there are only the Dorkings now, and they are all laying.' 


MIGNON, 


19 


One of the youngest must be killed/’ decides the captain, 
promptly. “ We are to dine at seven.” 

“ It’s half 'past five now,” utters his wife, looking mournfully 
at the clock. “ I only hope Oswald will bring a neck of mut- 
ton, that we may have a dish of cutlets; there is not time for a 
joint.” 

A quarter of an^our later, Oswald comes in, crimson and out 
of breath. He brings in triumph a basket out of which sticks 
the shank of a huge leg of mutton. 

Tableau 1 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Yea, and if men have gathered together gold and silver, or any other 
goodly thing, do they not love a woman which is comely in favor and 
beauty? 

“ And letting all these things go, do they not gape and even with open 
mouth fix their eyes fast on her?” — Book of Esdras. 

Meantime, Sir Tristram, unconscious of the woe he has 
brought on an innocent and deserving family, is calmly continu- 
ing his inspection of the Warren. Mrs. Bence has been made 
aware of his arrival, and hurries to his presence in extreme 
trepidation. His kindly manner soon reassures her: her terror 
gives way to admiration of her new lord. “ The handsomest, 
affablest gentleman, I think, I ever set eyes on,” she describes 
him later to the niece who helps her keep house. “ I says to 
myself at once, ‘There’s a husband for Miss Carlyle or Miss 
Regina, if they have the luck to get him.’ ” 

“ Captain Carlyle was a friend of my uncle’s, I suppose ?” Sir 
Tristram says, wlien he has succeeded in stemming the torrent 
of her apologies. 

“ Well, sir, so to speak, he was,” she answers; “ at least he was 
the only gentleman that ever come to the house of late days. 
But poor master wasn’t one for friends. He seemed to turn 
against every one the last year, and used to sit and read and 
mutter to himself. He was quite an old gentleman, though — in 
Iiis seventy-sixth when he was taken. One time he used to like 
to see the young ladies and Master Gerry; indeed, he was quite 
fond of him and Miss Mignon up till about this time twelve- 
month, and then he says to me, ‘ Let ’em come and rob the gar- 
den of every bit of fruit— that's all they want — but don’t let ’em 
ever come near me. I don’t want to see or to hear ’em.’ Poor 
young tilings!” says Mrs. Bence, warmly, “ it’s only nat’ral they 
should like good things, like all young folk; but,” she adds, rue- 
fully, “ if I’d have known you’d been coming. Sir Tristram, 
they shouldn’t have been near the strawberry-beds this week 
past.” 

“ I don’t eat fruit,” answers Sir Tristram; “ and please remem- 
ber that I wish them to come just the same as usual. I saw 
them as I came up. There were two youths: are both Captain 
Carlyle’s sons ?” 

“Oh, no. Sir Tristram; he has only one. Master Gerry, and he’s 
twin with Miss Mignon. I lived niirse there when they were 


30 


MIONOK 


born. The other was Mr. Carey — Mr. Oswald Carey; he’s jt^st 
like Miss Mignon’s shadow when he’s at home.” 

Improbable as it may seem, it is nevertheless a fact that a faint 
feehng of chagrin flitted over Sir Tristram at Mrs. Bence’s last 
words. 

“ Are they engaged ?” he asks. 

‘‘ No, no, sir. Why, Miss Mignon’s not long turned of seven- 
teen, and she doesn’t care two peas for him, nor never will for 
anybody, I don’t believe,” exclaims the housekeeper, with an 
impressive plurality of negatives. “ The captain had a sad dis- 
appointment about poor Master Gerry; but there! I’m letting 
my tongue run on and never thinking to ask you whether you’ll 
jjlease to take a bit o’ something to eat; though, not knowing 
you was coming, there’s not much to offer. There’s plenty of 
old wine in the cellar, however, that poor master was very choice 
over. Shall I go and get the key ?” 

Sir Tristram assents; the richest and least covetous man in 
the world cannot be other than gratified by the acquisition of a 
cellar of old wine. He makes an inspection, thinks it looks 
promising, and betakes himself to the grounds. “ My nephew 
has done the gardening single-handed the last five years,” Mrs. 
Bence tells him; ‘‘there used to be four up to then; but poor 
master got very near of late years, and eight wouldn’t be too 
many to keep it up properly as a gentleman’s place should be 
kept. Sir Tristram.” 

“ Well,” he says, pleasantly, “ I hope you will see them here, 
some day.” 

“ I’ve lived here a many years,” utters the worthy soul, a sud- 
den dimness clouding her vision, “ and I’ve got very fond of the 
place, but I suppose I must expect to have to make way for 
others now^, sir.” 

“Not at all! not at all!” he answers, kindly. “We shall see 
how we get on. At all events, you need not trouble yourself 
with any thought of leaving for the next twelve months. By 
that time we shall see how we suit each other.” 

“ I am sure you will suit me, sir,” returns Mrs. Bence, heartily; 
and Sir Tristram nods and smiles at her, and goes off to the 
garden, where soon afterward Captain Carlyle joins him. Poor 
man! the dehonnaire, jovial look has gone from his face; he 
forces himself to seem cheery and at ease, but the thought of 
the huge leg of mutton and the ungainly Dorking hangs over 
him like the sword of Damocles. He knows what is right — 
oh, miserable unprofitable knowledge, curse of those who can- 
not 

“ ‘ Not only know,’ 

But also practice what they know.” 

Fain would he charm his guest with an elegant, recherche little 
feast; and he must set before him a limb that only yesterday 
trotted across the heath and led its owner to “ crop the flowery 
mead,” and a bird that laid his egg for breakfast this morning 
and would have laid it for many a day to come had not his own 
imprudence sacrificed it to an untimely fate. 

Sir Tristram, ignorant of the sad thoughts at work in his com- 


MIGNON. 


21 


panion’s breast, talks cheerfully away, and does not even remark 
the alteration in Captain Carlyle's manner. The latter is con- 
ning over to himself what excuses he shall make for the un- 
tempting meal when it is placed on the table. He is poor and 
proud, but he has not the pride that would prompt him to confess 
his dilemma with a frank grace that would rob the situation of 
half its difficulty. When they arrive at the cottage, the draw- 
ing-room is untenanted. Mrs. Carlyle and Regina are dressing 
for the dreaded ordeal, Mary is assisting and directing in the 
kitchen, Oswald and Gerry are shelling peas and enjoying it as 
a capital joke; even Mignon is gathering roses for the dinner- 
table. Captain Carlyle leaves his guests with an apology 
whilst he goes to select the best wine from his moderately-fur- 
nished cellar. Sir Tristram looks out of the French widow, sees 
Mignon, 

“one arm aloft, 

Gowned in pure white that fitted to her shape,” 
and an exquisite shape it is, looks and longs for a moment, then 
steps diffidently out and joins her. She sees him, and gives 
him an unembarrassed smile of welcome. 

“ Will you give me a rose ?” he asks her. 

She is a saucy minx, and in a moment she cuts a huge full- 
blown cabbage rose and presents it gravely to him. Then, look- 
ing up and meeting his half -perplexed, half- discomfited look, she 
laughs her rippling laugh and with it takes his soul captive. 

“I should prefer a bud, if you will give me one,” he says, 
smiling. 

“ What will you do with it?” she asks. “ I don’t like a man 
with a flower in his button-hole — it looks like a shopman out on 
Sunday: and you cannot carry it about all the evening.” 

“ I will take it home and treasure it,” he answers, half in jest, 
half in earnest. 

“And label it Mignon,” she says, saucily. “By the way, 
perhaps you don’t know that my name is Mignon ?” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

“It is an odious name, is it not? — so silly, too; and nearly 
every one mispronounces it.” 

1 “ It is a charming name,” says Sir Tristram bethinking him 

of a quotation: 

“ The sweetest name that ever love 
Waxed weary of.” 

If she had been a woman of fashion, he would have told her 
the lines; being a fresh young girl, and, as such, the incarnation 
of all innocence and purity to him, he would have thought it a 
folly, nay, more, an impertinence, to . utter them aloud in her 
presence. Mignon trips from tree to tree, robbing each with 
ruthless hand of its fairest children; crimson, blush and golden, 
snow-white and rosy pink, are pressed together in the firm grasp 
of her small lithe fingers, and Sir Tristram follows, watching 
her every movement and drinking in her perfections in charmed 
silence. Nature was in a happy mood, he thinks, when she dow- 
ered this god-child with so lavish a hand. As she stands on tip- 
toe to reach a crimson blossom. Sir Tristram, instead of gal- 


22 


MIONON. 


lantly bringing his superior height to the rescue, is taking tiie 
opportunity to look at her feet. 

There is a certain noble lord (with whom in this matter my 
ideas are perfectly d' accord) who refuses to pronounce a woman 
beautiful until he has seen her eat. Sir Tristram never gives his 
verdict upon one until he has seen her feet. The momentary glance 
afforded him satisfies his critical eye. Mignon’s feet are encased, 
it is true, in shabby slippers, but they are small and well formed. 
And upward to her shapely hands, her creamy throat, her dim- 
pled mouth, the exquisite upper lip and dainty nose, the long- 
lashed eyes and white brow whence springs an aureole of ruddy 
golden hair, there is not one point the ravished beholder would 
wish more perfect. A strange desire seizes him to add to all 
that nature has done the graces of art. He is not a believer in 
‘ ‘ beauty unadorned;” he would like it to be his task to put dainty 
slippers on the little feet, rare stuffs and samites on the shapely 
form, to crown the golden locks with pearls and diamonds. All 
these thoughts, that take so long to write, flash through Sir 
Tristram’s mind in an instant. Unknowing how rapt his thoughts 
are in her, or how flattering their nature, Mignon is thinking 
meanly of his powers of being entertaining. 

“You won’t mind my leaving you a moment, will you?” 
she says. “ I want to take these into the house; they are for the 
dinner-table.” 

“You will not be long?” he asks. “You are Jiot going to 
dress for dinner, I hope, as I am in morning dress ?” 

“ Dress for dinner ?” she repeats. “ Oh, no; I am not going to 
dine. I hate dining late.” 

“ Not going to dine ?” (in some dismay). 

“No; Oswald and Gerry and I are going to have eggs and 
bacon in the schoolroom. We never dine with the old people; 
we have* so much more fun by ourselves.” 

Mignon’s naivete is decidedly of a thorny character; she is in 
the habit of pricking her auditors even without being actuated 
by any evil intent. 

“ Confound Oswald! I suppose she looks upon me quite as an 
old fellow!” are the two distinct thoughts that flash simultane- 
ously across the mind of her interlocutor. 

“ Why may I not have bacon and eggs in the schoolroom too ?” 
he asks. I 

“ You!” she echoes; and then, apparently struck by some in- 
tensely droll idea, she laughs one of her wonderful, bewitching 
laughs. 

Sir Tristram forgets, in his exceeding admiration, to think 
whether she is laughing at him. He has not seen her laugh be- 
fore; it seems to him the most charming, fascinating thing he 
has ever seen in a daughter of Eve, 

Whether saucy Miss Mignon is conscious of this natural and 
involuntary grace, I am unable to state; at all events, she does 
not attempt to check her jubilance. 

“ I wonder what amused you so much,” he says, his curiosity 
awakening as her laughter dies away. 

“ Nothing,” she answers, smiling, “ only papa was so disgusted 


MIQNON. n 

with me for suggesting that you should dine off eggs and bacon, 
and you have actually proposed it yourself.’’ 

Let me join your party, may I ?” he entreats, quite seriously. 

Sir Tristram thinks as much of his dinner (not more) as most 
men who have arrived at his time of life, and whom circum- 
stances have permitted to be critical, if not fastidious, as to what 
they eat. We must conclude that by his preferring to dine off 
bacon and eggs in Mignon’s society to having a bona fide dinner 
with her parents (remember, he is not in the secret of the fam- 
ily dilemma), that bewitching damsel must have made no slight 
impression upon him. 

“ Oh, that would never do, after papa and mamma have been 
making such preparations for you.” 

When the words have escaped her, a misgiving as to their dis- 
creetness seizes Mignon, and she takes refuge in flight. 

“ I will come back,” she cries, as she trips lightly off to the 
house. 

Whilst Sir Tristram is debating in his mind whether this is a 
ruse to get rid of him, she reappears. 

“ Would you like to see the pigs and the chickens?” she asks, 
and carries him off in the direction of the pig-sty. On their way 
to it they pass a gate that leads to the common. 

“ How delicious the air is here!” he says, pausing to lean upon 
it, and drawing in the flower-scented breath of the north wind 
with epicurean enjoyment. “ I should think the people about 
here never die, do they ?” 

“ Oh, yes; they are rather given to it; the water and the drain- 
age are bad.” 

Sir Tristram registers a mental vow to alter the sanitary con- 
ditions of his property. Mignon leans over the gate a little apart 
from him. The “ wanton zephyrs” are kissing her sweet lips 
and ruffling the little stray locks about her brow and throat. 
The man who stands beside her is fast losing his head over her 
loveliness, despite his forty-six years, despite its being half an 
hour beyond the promised dinner hour and his being exceedingly 
hungry. 

“You will not let my coming here prevent your going to the 
Warren as usual, will you ?” he says, presently. ' 

“ Thank you” (with a tinge of regret in her voice), “ but of , 
course it won’t be the same.” 

“Why not?” 

Mignon answers with characteristic frankness, “ I mean I can- 
not go about anyhow, as I have been used to do; you might 
come upon me round a corner when I least expected you, like 
you did to-day.” 

“ Suppose I did ? It would not harm you, and it would give 
me pleasure. 

Mignon laughs. 

“ Did it give you pleasure to come upon me ‘ red-handed,’ as 
Gerry said, in the act of eating your best strawberries ?” 

“ Are they good ones ?” 

“ Pretty good: nothing wonderful,” she answered, suspecting 
him of meanness in her heart. Perhaps if she tells him how 


.24 


MIGNON. 


good they are, he will not be so generous. But he is thinking 
that he would like to send her a cartload of the biggest he can 
procure from Covent Garden. 

“I wish,” he ventures, diffidently, “you would let me bring 
you some really worth having when I come next.” 

Mignon acquits him. 

“ Oh, thank you,” she says, “ but ” 

“ Do not say ‘ but;’ do you care for other fruit, apricots and 
peaches ?” 

“ I like everything that is good,” she laughs; and truth to tell, 
Miss Mignon is not only gourmet but gourmande. 

Meanwhile, grief and despair are raging inside the cottage. 
Captain Carlyle is stamping furiously about, girding bitterly at 
his meek and distressed partner: it has been pronounced impos- 
sible for the colossal joint to bear any approximation to eatable - 
ness before a quarter to eight: and at a quarter to nine, punctually . 
Sir Tristram must start in order to catch the last up train. The 
host is registering savage vows against hospitality; never, never, 
if he lives to be the age of Methuselah, will he give an im 
promptu invitation to dinner again! Poor Mrs. Carlyle, though 
she dare not say so, devoutly hopes he will keep the vow. Tlie 
captain has stormed once or twice into the kitchen, wdiere cook 
stands hot, flustered and wrathful: kind Mary, the peacemaker, 
is striving to help and to pour oil on the troubled waters. Regina 
is locked in her room, to be out of the way of domestic disagree- 
ables, as well as to arm herself for conquest. She is handsome, 
and dying to get away from home, and is in no humor to despise 
the godsend that chance seems to have thrown in her way. 
Little does she dream how her young sister’s loveliness is mak- 
ing the master of the Warren impervious to the charms of the 
rest of her sex. 

At last, at last, dinner is on the table, and Sir Tristram is 
brought to it by his host. He has gathered from Mignon’s un- 
intentional hints that Captain and Mrs. Carlyle have been at 
some pains to do him honor, and he is prepared with his innate 
good breeding and kindness of heart to make their efforts a su(‘- 
cess. But, with all his tact, he cannot help feeling disconcerted 
(not for his own sake) when the covers are removed. Before the 
captain steams the hinder limb of a colossal sheep; in front of 

E oor Mrs. Carlyle is a bird which could remind one of nothing 
ut that antediluvian biped the dodo. Its ungainly limbs are 
thrust in various directions; in her haste poor cook has forgot- 
ten to singe it, and long black hairs assert themselves through 
the gelatinous white sauce with which its bony framework is 
sparsely covered. Poor Captain Carlyle! the perspiration stands 
on his brow with anguish. Poor Mrs. Carlyle! she could thin 
the white sauce with her tears. Regina talks fast, to conceal 
her chagrin. Sir Tristram seconds her ably, and falls to with 
the greatest appearance of enjoyment when his mutton, the 
lesser evil of the two, is put before him. But, alas! he too is 
soon of those who can testify to the truth of the poet’s saying: 

“ How far apart are will and power!’^ 


MIGNON, 


25 


even his teeth, which are as useful as they are ornamental, rebel 
against the affront put upon them; they positively refuse to 
meet upon this sinewy fragment. He is not to be daunted; he 
swallows it whole, regardless of consequences. Mercifully, the 
peas are excellent. He bestows such praise upon them, and falls 
into such raptures over the delight of having one’s own kitchen - 
garden, you might have thought he had never enjoyed a dinner 
so much in his life. He is so pleasant and cheery that he almost 
succeeds in restoring the amour propre of his hosts. Virtue is 
its own reward; he wins golden opinions from them, than which 
there are few things he is more anxious for. Only one thing 
perturbs him. Where he sits he can see Mignon seated on the 
gate where he left her, Oswald Carey is her companion. He 
can hear now and again her ringing laugh, which he is dying to 
see. Presently they come toward the house. A little later he 
hears peals of laughter proceeding from (he concludes) the school- 
room, and a savory smell of bacon makes him wish, for more 
reasons than one, that he could join the party. Captain Car- 
lyle, as it steals across him, thinks he might have done better if 
he had not pooh-poohed his daughter’s suggestion of bacon and 
eggs. 

The second course arrives. Dear, good Mary Carlyle, by severe 
study of the cookery-book, has succeeded in transforming five 
delicious new-laid eggs into the consistency and appearance of 
an old shoe. Happily the last state of things is better than the 
first; there is an excellent cheese and a delicious salad; and on 
these the two men appease their hunger. Women never have 
any appetite when things go wrong, if they are weighed upon 
by any sense of responsibility. 

The fly is at the door; there is no time to spare. Captain and 
Mrs- Carlyle and Regina wish him a joyful good-bye, how thank- 
ful to “ speed the parting guest ” none knows but the entertainer 
with whom everything has gone wrong. Sir Tristram is full of 
thanks and kind words, but his eyes are wandering in search of 
Mignon. She does not come to take leave of him, and he is bit- 
terly chagrined. As the fly drives off, he gets a glimpse in at 
the schoolroom window, where there is a light. Oswald is ap- 
parently drawing, and Mignon leans familiarly over his shoulder. 
Sir Tristram unconsciously gives vent to a movement of impa- 
tience 

Two hours later he walks into Fred Conyngham’s rooms, 
where he is expected. His friend greets him with the usual 
British salutation; 

“Well?” 

Sir Tristram returns the usual British answer: 

“Well!’* 

“ Is it well?” Fred interrogates. 

“ Very well indeed, I think. I never saw a place with greater 
capabilities of being made charming, on a small scale. Nicely 
situated, good house, very fair sport, I imagine, and within an 
hour and a lialf of London.” 

“ Sounds well,” says Mr. Conyngham. ‘‘Any neighbors?” 


20 . 


PHONON, 


Very few, I should think. I met one at the place. Very- 
nice fellow, indeed: asked me to dinner.” 

What sort of dinner did he give you?” 

Now, I should really like to know why, seeing that Fred 
Conyngham is his bosom friend, the man in whom he is in the 
habit of reposing all his confidences, even of the most trifling 
nature, Sir Tristram should utterly forbear all mention of the 
unhappy failure of the dinner. Even when asked so leading a 
question, he only replies: 

“Oh, not so good as yours last night. I could not expect 
that.” 

“ What sort of aged man?” 

“ Oh, about my own age.” 

Somehow the words jar upon him. 

“ Any daughters ?” 

“ Three, I believe; but only one dined.” 

“ Good-looking ?” 

“ Rather handsome. Dark.” 

“ Then you haven’t met your doom yet,” chuckles Fred. 

Have a cigar and something to drink. My mind is relieved.” 


CHAPTER V. 

“ Oh, purblind race of miserable men, 

How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 

By taking true for false, or false for truel’^ 

Tertmjson. 

When two young English j)eople (I am happy to think they 
manage these things better abroad) agree to unite in a reckless 
disregard of consequences, and a selfish confidence in, or oblivion 
of, the future, by joining their hands, their w^ants, and their im- 
pecuniosity, the act is glorified by the name of a “ love-match.” 
They are applauded by all the young of their species, and looked 
upon with sympathetic interest by friends who are not likely to 
be called upon to assist them in the impending struggle to make 
(as some one has said) “ \vhat is not enough for one, enough for 
two,” or more probably for half a dozen. Their distracted fam- 
ilies alone look at the matter from a practical, common- sense 
point of view, and refuse to join in the hero-worship accorded 
by outsiders to the foolish young couple. It would be all very 
fine, they hint, sternly, if the aesthetic pair mean to live on air 
and love, or, better still, if the man were willing for his passion’s 
sake to turn' bread-winner in earnest, and his fair helpmate to 
cook, to wash, and to sew; but it only means that, having had 
their own way and becoming rather disgusted thereat, they come 
back to beg of their friends, who arc obliged in the long run, 
however they may gmmble, to do what they can for them. 

Captain and Mrs. Carlyle’s had been a love-match. He was a 
handsome subaltern in a marching regiment, she a pretty penni- 
less girl, both well connected. They loved as no two human be- 
ings had ever loved before (of course). Come poverty, come all 


MIONOK 


27 


the ills that flesh is heir to, but let them bear them together. 
They married. Three months later they were humbly confessing 
their folly and asking help. Mr. Carlyle’s father bought him his 
company, Mrs. Carlyle’s pinched the rest of his family to give 
her a hundred a year. The conditions on both sides were stern; 
nothing more was to be asked. Two daughters were born, and 
then it became necessary for the dashing captain to sell out and 
exile himself to a neighboring country, where provisions and 
education were less expensive than in his own. Life went pleas- 
antly enough for some years in the little Anglo-foriegn town 
among a coterie of English similarly circumstanced, when a new 
embarrassment befell them. This time it took the form of 
twins, Mignon and Gerald. 

If at that juncture Captain Carlyle’s mother had not found it 
convenient to shuffle off the mortal coil and in doing so to leave 
her younger son three hundred a year and a charming cottage, 
there is no knowing to what straits this virtuous but unfortunate 
family might have been reduced. Captain Carlyle and his 
family left the cheery little foreign watering-place, where 
amusements and provisions were cheap and plentiful, and came 
to lead a dull life at the cottage on the heath. 

Mrs. Carlyle, who was still rather a pretty woman and had 
been considered somewhat of a belle in the little Brittany circle, 
had to forego society now and console herself as best she might 
with rose-growing, worsted-work, and looking after her children. 
She was a devoted mother, and wife, too, for the matter of that, 
and only grumbled nowand then. iBer husband was much bet- 
ter off. He went to London at least once a week, had his club, 
his stroll in the park, his little dinners with friends, an occa- 
sional stall at the opera or theater. As his wife said — as all good 
self-denying wives say — “Oh, we get on very well” (“we” 
meaning herself and her daughters); “ but a man must be amusedy 
you knowP' Captain Carlyle followed this prescription to the 
best of his ability. Being a handsome, well-dressed, pleasant- 
mannered man, he got invited to country-houses, shooting-par- 
ties, a cruise now and then, or a week’s hunting. A good many 
of his friends did not even know that he was married; he did 
not obtrude the fact, though he admitted it with perfect frank- 
ness when questioned, and indeed could talk very sweetly about 
his “ darlings at home.” 

After his mother’s death, he held out the olive-branch to his 
elder brother (their father had been dead some time), and it was 
accepted. Mr. Carlyle used to come frequently to the cottage, 
took an immense fancy to Gerald, and led the sanguine parents 
to hope that he would make him his heir. It was improbable 
he would ever marry; the estate was entailed, and Mr. Carlyle 
had what his brother was pleased to call an entanglement; that 
is to say, there was already a reputed Mrs. Carlyle, but, though 
she bore his name, she did not live in his house, and he distinctly 
and repeatedly assured his brother that, greatly as he was at- 
tached to her, he had not the smallest intention of marrying 
her. He was devoted to Gerald, had him constantly to stay, 
sent him to school and afterwan’ to Eton, gave him a pony 


2S MIGNOm 

taught him to shoot— in fact, brought him up as befitted a rich 
man’s heir. 

The January before this story opens, Mr. Carlyle went out one 
morning as usual with his gun, and, getting through a hed^e, 
it went off and shot him dead on the spot. He left no wuL 
Captain Carlyle naturally supposed himself the heir; his grief 
for his brother was tempered by the sudden and unexpected 
access of fortune. But now Mrs. Carlyle came forward, showed 
her “ marriage lines.” and gave indisputable proof that she had 
been Mr. Carlyle’s lawful wife all along, though he had suc- 
ceeded in persuading her (no one knew exactly why) not to 
assert her claims. Worst of all, she had two children, the 
younger a boy who came into the property. The acrimony with 
which, in his disappointment. Captain Carlyle contested the 
widow’s claims and the validity of her marriage, made her a 
bitter and lasting enemy; so poor Gerald, from being a young 
man of considerable importance with the happiest prospects, 
was now only the son of a poor man, having great ideas and no 
means of carrying them out. He had to leave Eton, the sorest 
blow of all, and had been at home ever since, waiting until some 
decision as to his future could be arrived at. A nice bright 
young fellow he is, of a happy disposition, and bears his dis- 
appointment bravely, being helped thereto by the united love 
and petting of the whole family, who idolize him. 

As Captain Carlyle, having taken farewell of his guest, smokes 
his cigar up and down the great path in the kitchen-garden be- 
tween two rows of gooseberry bushes, he finds much food for re- 
flection. Their new neighbor is a decided acquisition: he seems 
pleased with the place, and may in all probability, if the fancy 
grows, spend a good deal of time here, even though he has 
a much larger place in the North. AVhy should he not take 
a fancy to one of the girls, say Regina ? Mary is too sedate, 
quite the cut of an old maid, Mignon too young. Regina is 
handsome, and agreeable when she chooses; no one is to know 
slie has the devil’s own temper, and she would probably keep it 
to herself until after she had secured him. Here is an opening 
iov the fortunes of the family. He seems a thoroughly good sort 
of fellow, is rich and of an old family, no doubt he would get 
Gerry a commission or provide for him somehow, and perhaps, 
if he should prefer his Northern place, he, Captain Carlyle, 
would have free quarters at the Warren and as much shooting 
as he liked. In spite of the dodo and the tough mutton, he is in 
an excellent humor when he joins his family in the drawing- 
room. 

A fortnight elapses. Sir Tristram has been down five times to 
the Warren, and his relations with the family at the cottage 
grow more pleasant and intimate on every occasion. As a mat- 
ter of course, now, he always dines with the Carlyles; and, as 
he is expected and due notice given, the disaster of the first 
evening is not repeated. He never comes empty-handed; with 
his usual consideration, he is reluctant to tax the hospitality of 
his new acquaintances; and his offerings are made with charac- 
teristic delicacy. Sometimes it is a salmon oaiighr by a friend iu 


M mis' ON. 


^9 


the Black water, sometimes Ic’ll: a sheep bred on his own moors, 
hams acquired in some exceptional way (every present has 
a history and an excuse), clear turtle from the city, wonderful 
cases from Fortnum Sc Mason’s, a dozen of cabinet hock for 
the captain, and wine brought unsparingly from the cellars of 
the Warren under pretext of tasting it. To Mignon he brings 
strawberries such as she has never seen before, so big she cannot 
get one into her pretty mouth all at once tliough she tries, and 
apricots and peaches the price of which wmuld have astonished 
the reckless young lady had she known it. Mignon divided them 
pretty fairly with Gerry and Oswald ; and of course Sir Tristram 
was immensely gratified by seeing the latter make four mouth- 
fuls of two costly peaches, and, not aware of his vicinity, pro- 
nounce him afterward a “ good old bloke.” 

Mignon nearly died of laughter; and Sir Tristram’s serenity 
returned on the spot. Nothing in the world, he thought, could 
be so beautiful as her laugh. 

There is no possibility of a doubt now in any one’s mind as to 
who is the attraction at the cottage. No one could see Sir Tris- 
tram with Mignon for five minutes without being certain that he 
w^as desperately iii love with her. The young lady herself is per- 
fectly aware of it; and, though she thinks it rather a presumption 
in this elderly man to admire her so freely, she tolerates him on 
account of the nice things he brings her and the superior con- 
sideration his attentions cause her to receive from her family. 
But she will persist in thinking him old; the young are very 
tenacious about the boundary-line of youth and age. No matter 
that Sir Tristram looks as he is, in all the prime and vigor of 
manhood, no matter that his face has scarcely a wrinkle, that 
his hair is uii thinned, unwhitened by the hand of Time, that his 
teeth are as sound as a schoolboy’s, he is as old as her father — 
ergo, he is old, ridiculously long past the possible age of a 
lover. She insists on calling him “ a nice old thing,” despite the 
remonstrances of her family, and many a time galls him sorely 
by hints and allusions to his antiquity, which up to the present 
time he has never felt ashamed of. 

In this little time, she has twined and coiled herself round his 
heart so tightly that the unclasping of her would be almost more 
than he could bear, he thinks. He loves her passionately, ten- 
^derly, wdtli the wide difference that lies between the love of a 
boy and that of a man no longer young. The first elements in a 
young man’s love are the strength of its passion and its selfish- 
ness. It may be capable of sacrifice, but at the root and core 
the love is for his own sake. How often has one heard of a very 
young man giving up a woman for her own good! An older 
man’s love (I am speaking of the true love of a true man) has 
other elements in it. It may have all the intensity of passion of 
the boy’s love, but it is capable of a greater tenderness; it is 
more thoughtful for the beloved object, more careful of its wel- 
fare, more anxious for its good, even though that good stands 
between it and him. 

Sir Tristram loves Mignon wdtli the love that her exceeding 
fairness, her (to him) bewitching ways, call forth; and he loves 


MIGNOK 


It) 

her also with the protecting tenderness of the full-grown man 
for the child. His one idea is how in the future, should he be so 
blest as to call her his, he can make her happiest and most ben- 
efit her and hers. He knows all the family affairs; Captain 
Carlyle has with unreserved frankness confided to him the diffi- 
culties and disappointments that have beset him; he even tells 
him what he has carefully kept from every one else— that he is 
at this moment considerably embarrassed by an unfortunate 
speculation. Sir Tristram is rich and generous; nothing would 
please him better than to relieve Captain Carlyle from his pecu- 
niary troubles and to provide for Gerald ; but between two men 
in their position a free gift is as impossible to offer as to receive; 
there must be an equivalent. In the minds of both men, though 
unhinted at in the most remote manner, Mignon represents that 
equivalent. Sir Tristram is the very furthest remove from a 
vain man. True, he has been loved and courted by women, but 
personally, he feels, he has not enough to recommend him to a 
lovely young girl as a suitor. But he has all the consciousness 
that a man of his age and standing must have, of the power and 
worth of his adventitious circumstances. All he has to endow 
her with is not enough, he thinks (the beggar-maid’s beauty 
made her worthy of King Cophetua’s crown), but all the same, 
Mignon is poor, dowerless, prospectless, and he can give her the 
rank and wealth that will enhance her beauty and enable her to 
know and enjoy the full value of it. He will be no niggard 
with her, no selfish, jealous husband; all he has shall be hers un- 
grudged; his shall be the task of giving her everything that can 
contribute to her happiness and enjoyment; he will not even ask 
any return; he will trust her implicitly. 

Captain Carlyle’s views on the subject are extremely simple. 
If Mignon gets Sir Tristram, she will be a devilish lucky girl; he 
is rich, titled, generous, does not seem to have a fault of heart or 
temper; he will make an unexceptionable husband. That Mign- 
on should regard the matter from a different point of view 
never enters his brain. 

That young lady, however, has as much idea of any marrying 
or giving in marriage in the matter as of learning the dead lan- 
guages. She regards Sir Tristram much as Cinderella might 
have regarded the beneficent old fairy godmother who turned 
her pumpkin into a chariot. The idea of marrying him does not 
enter her brain; when it is put there she treats it with the pro- 
foundest contempt. 

One day Oswald says to her in an access of jealous rage: 

“ I suppose you are already thinking what a fine thing it will 
be to be ‘ my lady,’ and to be decked out in diamonds.” 

Mignon is sitting on her favorite gate, digging her pretty 
little teeth into a green apple in default of anything more in- 
viting. 

“ What do you mean ?” she asks, coolly. 

“ I suppose you will soon be Lady Bergholt,” he answers, with 
a scowl, viciously hitting the young green shoots in the hedge 
with a switch. 

Mignon throws her apple into the air and catches it again. 


MIGNON. 


n) 


You are a donkey,” she remarks placidly. 

“ Thank you. I dare say I am. At all events I sha'n’t be 
donkey enough to come to the wedding; so you may save your- 
self the trouble of asking me.” 

Mignon begins to laugh. The gate is rickety; it will not bear 
her weight and the want of balance caused by unrestrained mer- 
riment; so she slips down on the grass and sits there laughing 
until the tears roll down her cheeks. 

Oswald stands regarding her with angry and most unwilling 
admiration. 

“ I do not see anything so very funny in the matter,” he says, 
sulkily. 

“I! marry an old thing like that!” she cries, between two 
peals of laughter. ‘‘ It seems very funny to me, I can tell 
you.” 

Oswald looks at her penetratingly, but there is evidently noth- 
ing to penetrate. 

“Mignon,” he utters, presently, “you must either be very 
deceitful or very — I don’t know whether to say silly or inno- 
cent.” 

“ Say the latter,” she answers, taking another bite at the apple 
and making a wry face over it: “it sounds better. Or you 
might say green like this apple. Pah!” (flinging it away), “1 
am sure 5^011 could have found me a better one.” 

“You know he is not old!” continues Oswald; “he is ’’(re- 
luctantly) ** a very good-looking fellow, and what any girl might 
fancy.” 

“ She must be rather an old girl,” retorts Mignon. “ Not 
old!” (raising her voice); “he is old enough to be my grand- 
father!” 

“ Rather a young grandfather!” says Oswald, scornfully. 

“ He is thirty years older than me.” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“ I asked him.” 

“Well, you are a cool hand, I must say!” remarks Oswald, 
halting between surprise and admiration. “But” (jealously) 
“ why did you want to know ?” 

“Because Regina said he was younger than papa. And he 
isn’t: he’s a month older.” 

“ Did he look pleased when you asked him ?” 

“I didn’t notice. Why shouldn’t he? What’s the good of 
being ashamed of your age?” 

“You know he’s in love with you,” cries Oswald, returning to 
tlie charge. 

“Of com-se I do ” (complacently). “Any one with half an 
eye can see that.” 

“ And you encourage him ?” (indignantly). 

“ To be sure.” 

“ One of these days he will propose to you.” 

“ I hope so. I want to have a real genuine offer. Some girls 
have had offers at fifteen.” 

“ So have you. You know, Mignon, I made you an offer when 
you were fourteen.” 


82 


MJGNON, 


Mignon laughs. 

‘‘My dear boy, you had nothing to offer. That doesn*t 
o-ount.” 

“ Nol I suppose the devotion of a faithful heart doesn’t count!” 
says the poor lad, bitterly, “ unless one’s got diamonds and a title 
to offer as well. And pray, when he does ask you what do you 
intend to say ?” 

Mignon clasps her arms round her knees and looks thought- 
fully in the distance. 

“I am not sure,” she answers, reflectively, “I’ve thought 
of half a dozen different ways of refusing him gracefully, i 
hope to goodness” (with great earnestness) “ I sha’n’t laugh in 
his face!” 

Oswald looks at her with genuine indignation. 

“You are a heartless coquette!” he cries, angrily. 

“ You got that phrase out of a book,” she answers, coolly. 
“ You know you did. That’s just the thing of all others I have 
always wanted to be. I should like to have dozens of lovers at 
my feet and to spurn them all.” And Mignon gives a kick with 
her pretty little foot at the imaginary lovers. 

Oswald is quite angry by this time — so angry that he is ready 
to champion his rival. 

“ And you mean to say you actually intend to let him propose 
to you, just for the pleasure of being able to say you’ve had an 
offer from a baronet?” 

Mignon nods, 

“Then if Regina wants to lord it over me as she used to do, 1 
shall be able to shut her up.” 

“ I wish to Heaven,” cries the young fellow, bitterly, “ that I 
had never seen you, or at all events that I could prevent myself 
caring for you.’’ 

“ But you can’t,” returns Mignon, placidly. “ The worse I be- 
have to you, the better you’ll like me; you can’t help yourself. 
Come, let us go into the orchard and look for a nice apple; I saw 
one getting red on one of the high boughs. You can climb up 
and get it for me.” 

“ I am not going to be made a cat’s-paw of,” says Oswald, sulkily 
turning away. 

“Yes, you are,” she answ^ers, putting a hand through his 
arm and rubbing her shoulder against it like a coaxing young 
cat. 

He pauses, irresolute. An inspiration seizes him. 

“ I won’t unless you let me kiss you.” 

“ All right!” says Mignon, putting up her peach-like cheek with 
perfect sang-froid, 

Oswald salutes it shyly, and then goes to the orchard, where 
he all but breaks his back in getting her the coveted apple. 


MIGNON, 




CHAPTER VI. 

“ 8h« called me silly creature, and asked me If It were not one of the 
truest signs of love when men were most fond of the women who were 
least fit for them and used them worst? These men, my dear, said she, 
are very sorry creatures, and know no medium. They will either, 
spaniel-like, fawn at your feet, or be ready to jump into your lap.” 

JSir C?m7'les Grandison. 

Never once has Sir Tristram mentioned Mignon to his friend. 
He knows quite well what cynicisms Fred would pour forth — 
how by fair words and foul, by invocations in the name of com- 
mon sense, by the stinging lash of his ridicule, he would essay 
to turn him from his purpose. And he does not mean to be 
turned. All Fred could say would be but spoken to the “ deaf 
adder who stoppeth her ears,” and it might cause a coolness be- 
tween them. Fred suspects nothing: he thinks his friend has 
taken a vast fancy to the place, and that in its neglected con- 
dition it naturally requires a good deal of his attention. 

A month has elapsed since Sir Tristram first saw Mignon in 
the green glade, crowned with the sunlight, her young lover 
kneeling at her feet, and the time has come now^, he thinks, to 
put his fate to the touch, 

“ To win or lose it all.” 

He does not much fear that he will lose it, though he does not 
for one moment believe that the girl is in love with him, but, 
from her saucy, unrestrained manner, her apparent content if 
not pleasure in his presence, he believes she likes him well 
enough not to entertain repugnance to the idea of becoming his 
wife, and when the happy time arrives that he can endow her 
with all her heart can desire, he does not despair of winning her 
love. He is too sensible to have the supreme confidence of a 
young lover; he does not scruple to acknowledge to himself the 
value of his auxiliary circumstances. The manner in which his 
offer shall be made has caused him some sleepless nights and a 
great deal of anxious thought. He concludes not to make it 
personally. It might frighten her, or she might, in one of her 
wayward impulses, turn the whole thing into ridicule, and so 
pain him unspeakably. He decides to make his proposal in the 
old-fashioned manner, to her father. Sir Tristram believes him- 
self sure of the good offices of the rest of the family. 

So he writes a frank, manly letter to Captain Carlyle, which, 
while it conveys in unmistakable terms his affection for Mignon, 
speaks no less plainly of his consciousness of the disparity of 
their years and the efforts he is willing and ready to make to 
surmount this barrier, or, at all events, to reconcile her to it. 
He begs that Captain Carlyle and Mignon will take three days 
to consider his proposal, at the end of which time he hopes 
most anxiously for the answer that will make him the happiest 
man in the world. 

“ A handsomel* letter never was written!” exclaims Captain 
Carlyle to his wife, when he has read it to her. The mother is 
intensely pleased and gratifietl : she has no mo^ 


S4 MIQNON. 

husband that Mignon will accept with delight so splendid a 
future. 

“ I see Mignon in the garden,” says Captain Carlyle, looking 
out of the window. “ I will go to her at once. Lucky young 
puss!” 

Mignon is regaling herself on raspberries when she sees her 
father coming toward her, his face broad with smiles and a 
general air of satisfaction with himself and benevolence to all 
mankind pervading him. Mignon regards him inquiringly as 
she puts a red raspberry to her ruddier lips, 

“ I have some wonderful news for you!” he cries, coming up 
to her. Guess what it is!” 

“ Some one has died and left you a lot of money,” she replies, 
practically. 

“ Better.” 

“ Better! Then I cannot guess.” 

“ How would you like some one to give you a lot of money 
without dying ?” (jocosely). 

Mignon makes a little face. 

“ I had rather they died. They might want it back again.” 

Her father is in too great a hurry to tell the good news to 
bandy words with her. 

“ What do you say to being ‘ my lady?’ What do you say to 
Sir Tristram Bergholt having proposed for you ?” 

Mignon looks, as she feels, genuinely disappointed. She has 
never contemplated anything so uninteresting and prosaic as the 
offer being made through her father. 

“ Well,” cries Captain Carlyle, “ have you nothing to say ?” 

“ Yes; he is a stupid old donkey, and you may tell him so with 
my compliments.” 

“ Mignon!” (wu’athfully) this is no subject for jesting, if you 
please.” 

“ Jesting!” echoes Mignon. 

Suddenly a new idea strikes her, and she stands still and looks 
at her father. 

“ Papa,” she says, incredulously, “ you don’t mean to say that 
you would let me marry a man as old as you 

“ Why not,” answers Captain Carlyle, angrily, “ when he is 
most desirable in every way ? He is quite a young man, devoted 
to you, and is everything I should think, the most unreasonable 
woman could want.” 

Mignon’s face assumes an unmistakably mutine look. She 
says nothing, but recommences her occupation of eating rasp- 
berries. 

The expression of Captain Carlyle’s face as he regards her is 
not paternal. 

“ Well ?” he says, sharply. 

“ Well!” she replies. 

“What answer am I to give him?” (with increasing irrita- 
tion). 

“ My compliments, and if he will refer to the prayer-book he 
v\ ill find that a woman ‘ may not marry her grandfather.’ ” 

' ' ’ Jitters a very naughty word with .great eni- 


MJGNON. 


phasis, and goes off to the house in a rage. He has always been 
used to spoil his youngest daughter, and has not checked her 
pertness as he would have done that of any other member of the 
family. He feels an unpleasant consciousness of his inability to 
control her: she has become his master. A horrid idea seizes 
him that, if she chooses to rebel, he cannot force her to this 
marriage; a dreadful misgiving takes him that she does mean to 
rebel. He has seen that mulish look on her face once or twice 
before, and he remembers that it has ended by his giving in. 
No one who had seen her lovely smile could imagine how deter- 
mined Mignon can look when she frowns. 

Captain Carlyle goes to his own room, banging the door be- 
hind him, and takes refuge in a cigar. Meanwhile, Mrs. Carlyle 
has broken the happy news to her elder daughters, and thej^ are 
all sitting in joyful conclave in the drawing-room. The possi- 
bility of Mignon refusing 'her good fortune is as far from their 
thoughts as it was twenty minutes ago from her father’s. 

Mignon comes in. 

“ Let me congratulate you, ‘ my lady!’ ” says Mary, playfully, 
going up to kiss her. 

“ And nae,” adds Regina, half enviously. “ What luck some 
people have!” 

“ God bless you, my dear child!” utters her mother, with humid 
eyes. 

Mignon stares at them in wide-eyed surprise for a moment, 
then bursts into a peal of laughter. 

What!” she cries, presently, “ did you, too, think I was going 
to marry that old creature?” 

Mignon!” they all cry, in a breath, but with different accents. 
Mrs. Carlyle’s is one of horror, Mary’s of mild reproach, Regina’s 
of sharp impatience. 

The girl never heeds them, but continues to laugh. 

“What a joke!” she exclaims again. “I must go and find 
Gerry, and tell him,” and she turns to go. 

“ Stay, Mignon,” says Mary, detaining her. Then, kindly and 
firmly, “ My dear, I do not think you consider what a very serious 
matter this is. Hiere is no fun in it.” 

“ Are you a born fool ?” cries Regina, tartly. 

Mignon is acute enough to see that all her family have ranged 
themselves on Sir Tristram’s side. She hardens her heart and 
stiffens her neck and prepares to do combat with them singly and 
collectively. She throws herself into a chair and prepares for 
battle. Her niother commences the attack. 

“ My dear,” she exclaims, with nervous energy, “you cannot 
surely think seriously of throwing away such a wonderful 
chance.” 

The mulish look comes into Mignon’s lovely face; she answers 
by never a word. 

Mary Carlyle is a thoroughly good woman, good in every 
sense of the word, tender-hearted, charitable, unselfish, un- 
worldly— the very last person in the world to advocate a mar- 
riage simply for the worldly advantages it might bring. But 
she has conceived the highest admiration and regard for Sir Tris- 


MIGNON. 


U 

tram; she has never seen a man yet to whom she would sc 
gladly have given her hand and heart, even without the desira* 
ble adjuncts he possessed, had fate willed his liking to fall on 
her. With Eegina it is the adjuncts, not the man, she envies 
Mignon; though she likes him well enough. As for IMrs. Car 
lyle, she thinks him perfect in every way. 

" “ Dear Mignon,” says Mary, wdio has more influence over hea 
sister than all the rest of the family put together, except, per- 
haps Gerald, “ what can you possibly nnd to object to in Sir Tris- 
tram ? You have always seemed to like him.” 

“ So I do. I like old Hawdey and old Jones” (the doctor and 
the clergyman), “ but I shouldn’t like to marry them.” 

“My love,” interposes Mrs. Carlyle, looking shocked, “how^ 
can you possibly compare them with Sir Tristram ? though of 
course we know they are both excellent men in their way. I 
am sure I should have thought him just the very man to take a 
girl’s fancy.” 

“ But you only look at him with your own eyes, which are 
old, mamma,” retorts Mignon; “ you cannot know the least how' 
a girl would feel.” 

“ I have been young, my dear, and I do not think I am so old 
that I cannot remember how I felt as a girl.” 

“Papa was young,” interrupts Mignon. “You never were 
asked to marry an old man.” 

“ Ho \v you harp upon his being old!” cries Regina. “He is 
just in his prime; there is not the slightest trace of age either in 
nis face or figure.” 

“ He is thirty years older than I am,” says Mignon wdth fire, 
“ and it is shameful of you all to want to sell me to an old man. 
I \von’t be sold! I would rather sweep a crossing.” 

“ My dear,” interposes her mother, “ how can you talk in siicli 
a dreadful way! I don’t know what your papa will say if you 
refuse Sir Tristram; he will be quite broken-hearted.” 

“ Broken-hearted!” echoes Mignon, scornfully. “ How will he 
be worse off than he was a month ago, before we ever saw him ? 
I wish to Heaven ” (with angry energy) “ he had gone to the bot- 
tom of the sea, or been eaten up by bears, or murdered by 
savages, on his fine travels. Papa broken-hearted!” (her voice 
more and more crescendo) “if Jie is, it will only be because ho 
can’t get the man’s shooting or wine or something or other, and 
it doesn’t seem to matter to anybody about my being broken- 
hearted!” 

Mrs. Carlyle is too shocked to make any rejoinder, and, be- 
sides, she has never had much control over her youngest daugh- 
ter. Mignon’s organ of veneration, if she has one at all, is of the 
very smallest. Mary is the only person for whom slie feels any 
approach to respect. Having lashed herself up into a rage, she 
is not to be stopped. 

“ I am only seventeen,” she cries, “not out yet, and I have 
been looking forward to going out and dancing and — and having 
lovers and enjoying myself, and here you all want to tie me 
down to an old man to mope my life out, and all for the sake of 
)iis nasty, beastly, horrid money! But I wont! I won’t! 1 


MIGNOX. 


8T 


WON’T ! ! ! not for any of you, not for all of you, if you worry 
me morning, noon, and night I not if you shut me up and keep 
me on bread and water for a year! not if you hill me /” 

Mignon’s lovely face is inflamed with passion, but it is still 
lovely: I am not sure that it is not lovelier than ever. The car- 
nation is in her fair cheeks, her dark-blue eyes flash with im- 
mense brilliancy, her quivering lips are pouted with scorn and 
anger: she is a lovely picture of a lovely shrew! the world- 
famed Katherine never outdid her in expression. 

‘‘Mignon,” says Regina, calmly, at this juncture, ‘‘if you 
have attained, as I should imagine, the highest pitch of fury of 
which your sweet disposition is capable, will you listen to me 
for a moment ?” 

Mignon glares at her sister in silence. Regina takes the silence 
for consent. 

“ You said just now,” she proceeds, “ that you wanted to go 
out and dance and have lovers and enjoy yourself. How much 
of that sort of thing do you suppose you are going to get here ? 
You might judge of that by the immense amount of dissipation 
you have seen Mary and myself enjoy. Now, if you marry Sir 
Tristram, you can go to balls and parties every night of your 
life; you will be presented at court; you will have as many new 
dresses and as much admiration as your heart can desire.” 

“ What’s the use of going to balls, if I can’t dance?” pouts 
Mignon, giving ear, however, to her sister’s discourse. 

“ Why should you not dance, pray ?” 

“ I thought people didn’t dance after they were married.” 

“ Ah!” returns Regina, dryly, “ that was in the good old- 
fashioned days. Now the married women dance and flirt, and 
the unmarried ones sit out.” 

“ Regina!” cries Mary. 

Regina does not heed her, but continues. “You have not a 
particle of affection in your composition, you are very vain, you 
care for nothing but having your own way: what does it matter 
to you that you are not in love with Sir Tristram ? you would 
not care for the Archangel Michael long: it is not in your nature. 
Who knows ? if you marry this man you may be the reigning 
belle in London next season. You are lovely, as you are per- 
fectly aware; and if you are rich ^d titled, your charms will 
be enhanced fourfold. It is worth consideration 'whether you 
will be a woman of fashion, surrounded by everything your 
heart can desire, or throw away this chance and sink into a for- 
lorn old maid, or perhaps Mrs. Oswald Carey, with twopence a 
year.” 

“Mrs. Oswald Carey?” echoes Mignon, scornfully, going out, 
that Regina may not have the satisfaction of seeing how much 
impression she has made. 

“ Regina,” cries Mary, with righteous indignation, “ how can 
you talk to the child in that way ? It is wicked of you ?” 

“ At all events,” replies her sister, “ my practical remark av^ 
done more good to the cause than anything you have said or are 
likely to say.” 

“ If I did not believe she would be happy with Sir Tristram, 


88 


MJGNON. 


and grow to love him for his own sake, not for what he can give 
her, I would dissuade him from marrying him with all my 
might, even if she were inclined to it,” says Mary, emphatically. 

Captain Carlyle, after much cogitation and numerous cigars, 
comes to a conclusion about the best mode of attacking Mignon. 
He takes plenty of time to mature his ideas; he even sleeps 
upon them. His wife is forbidden to speak to him on the sub- 
ject. Mignon he treats with perfect kindness and good humor: 
she begins to think that he has given up the idea of marrying 
her to Sir Tristram. Regina’s words have sunk deep into her 
breast. Oh, if she could only have all those fine things without 
the husband! She is not one whit more inclined to the thought 
of that part of it than before. 

The next morning Mignon receives a message that her father 
would like to speak to her in his study. ‘‘ Ah!” she thinks, “ he 
is going to try again.” And she shuts her small, red mouth and 
marches into the room, looking like a young Cor day brought be- 
fore her judges, firm, resolved, composed. 

Captain Carlyle realizes at a glance all he has to contend 
with; and it does not make his task easier. Of one thing he is 
steadfastly resolved; nothing shall make him lose his temper. 

Mignon enters the room, and, still retaining the handle of the 
door, says: 

“ Do you want me, papa ?” 

“Yes, my dear” (attectionately). “ Come and sit down I 
want to have a little talk with you.” 

“ I had rather stand.” 

Mignon feels morally stronger when she is on her feet. 

“ Oblige me, my dear” (suavely), “ by taking that seat.” 

The blue eyes and red lips look more rebellious than ever as 
their owner obeys. 

“You guess, no doubt, on what subject I wish to speak to 
you,” proceeds her father, assuming an air of ease he is far from 
feeling. So much hangs upon this interview. 

Mignon replies by neither word, look, nor sign. 

“ It has always been my endeavor,” continues Captain Car- 
lyle, “to make my children happy; in fact, I may say my life 
has been one constant sacrifice to their interests.” 

He keeps his eyes averted from Mignon as he utters this; he 
knows perfectly well that humbug will not go down with her, 
and he would rather not see, or seem to see, the incredulous look 
that he rightly guesses is expressed on her face. 

The young are terrible critics when they are not imbued with 
much faith or veneration. Even Fred Conyngham’s face could 
not betoken more cynical disbelief than this pretty young girl’s. 
Mignon is fond of her father in a way, but the very selfishness 
she inherits from him makes her more keenly alive to his. She 

th. ’king, “ Great sacrifices, indeed! when you are always 

Ing . yay and enjoying yourself whilst we are moped to death 
at home and can hardly ever have new clothes because you 
spend all the money.” She does not, however, utter her 
thoughts aloud; she has been brought up too well to break into 


MIGNON. 39 

any open disrespect toward him. But all the time of his oration 
felio continues to make little cynical inward comments. 

“ I should be the last man in the world, I hope,” he proceeds, 
with the emphasis acquired from a mens conscia recti, “to en- 
deavor to inlluence a child of mine against her own good and 
happiness. If I were not assured that a marriage with Sir 
Tristram Bergholt would insure both, believe me, my dear child, 
I would rather cut off my right hand than urge it.” 

Here Captain Carlyle turned his candid and affectionate gaze 
upon his daughter’s face; but such open and utter disbelief is 
expressed upon it that he removes it again. 

“ You are too young and inexperienced,” he hurries on, “to 
know the enormous worldly advantages such a marriage offers 
vou — the means of entering into society, the highest society, the 
luxury which will permit you to gratify your most extravagant 
desires, for I am sure Sir Tristram is the most generous of men, 
and would prove a thoroughly indulgent husband.” (Mignon 
makes a wry face.) “ But, after all, this is not what I am most 
anxious to speak to you about. I want you to have some little 
thought for others.” (“ Ah!” thinks Mignon, “ now we are com- 
ing to the point.”) You are fond of Gerry. Poor fellow! yoii 
know what a frightful disappointment he has had, how he has 
been made a victim of his uncle’s cruel treachery, and I am 
afraid, poor lad, there is worse misfortune yet in store for him.” 

Mignon pricks up her ears; the one soft spot in her hard little 
heart is love for Gerry, 

“ "Worse!” she echoes. “ What worse can there be ?” 

Captain Carlyle averts his face. 

“I am going to tell you something that I have carefully kept 
from every one up to this time. If I tell you, will you promise 
to keep my secret ?” 

Mignon nods. 

“I was anxious, as you know, to get a commission for him, 
but could not afford the expense of it, nor of preparing him for 
the army. I was told, by a person in wdiom I placed implicit 
confidence, of an investment that was not only most advanta- 
geous, but perfectly safe ” 

“And you lost the money!” interrupts Mignon. Then, sor- 
rowfully, “ Poor Gerry!” 

Her father bends his head. “So that I am worse off than I 
was before; and not only can I do nothing for Gerry, but most 
probably we shall have to leave this place and go somewhere to 
retrench. As for Gerry, poor fellow, I hardly like to think of it, 
but I’m very much afraid he’ll have to go to South America.” 

“ South America!” cries Mignon, a horrible pain gnawing at 
her heart; “ why South America ?” 

“ Because I have had an offer from a mercantile house there to 
take him as a clerk — the only opening for him I can hear of. It 
will be an awful thing for him, poor lad, going so far from home 
and having to associate with men utterly inferior to him; but he 
can’t stop at home eating the bread of idleness.” 

Mignon clasps her hands and bites her lip hard to keep back 
the rising tears. Gerry, her handsome, aristocratic brother, with 


40 


MIGNOK 


liis grand ideas, thousands of miles over the .seas, homesick, 
heartsick, compelled to herd with low associates! She walks 
across the room and stands in front of her father, and looks him 
through and through with her deep, searching eyes. 

“Is this true?” she says; “or are you only "trying to work 
upon my feelings to get me to do what you want ?” 

“ It is gospel truth,” he answers, returning her look. 

She goes to the window and looks out. A cold hand seems to 
be grasping her heart: the roses in the garden upon which she 
looks are blun*ed and misty: for the first time, sorrow has crept 
into her heart and made itself at home there. Then she turns 
away, and goes out of the room, without a word. Her father 
does not attempt to stop her, he knows he has made his impres- 
sion, and is content. 


CHAPTER VH. 

Arctic , — Yes, I love her, 

And if the Lives of all niy Name lay on it, 

1 must do so, I love her with all my soul; 

If tnat will lose ye, farewell, Palamon.” 

Beaumont and Fletcher, 

“Oui, elle est capricieuse, j’en demeure d’accord; mais tout sied bien 
aux belles; on souffre lout des belles .” — Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. 

Mignon picks up her hat from the hall chair where she left it 
when she obeyed her father’s summons, and takes her way 
across the common to the Warren. It is so much her habit to 
go there that siie forgets to think whom it belongs to, or, in her 
indignation against its owner for having placed her in this hor- 
rible dilemma, she would probably turn her back upon it. Her 
favorite haunt is a green glade where are big trees with moss- 
covered boles and wild flowers run riot in the long grass. Mign- 
on rarely courts solitude, but to-day she wants to think with 
no eyes to wwteh her save those of the wild blossoms, deep blue 
and tender pink, gold-colored and starry white. The little Scotch 
terrier, seeing her go out alone, has followed to take care of her; 
but he is not intrusive nor inquisitive; he lies down at a little 
distance, with his nose between his paws and one eye open; he 
wishes it to be distinctly understood that he has not come to pry, 
but is only in attendance in case of being wanted. Dogs have a 
delicate way of “effacing themselves” that their superior (?) 
masters might now and then copy with advantage. 

Mignon throws herself down on the warm, scented grass, and 
leans her head against one of the great velvety boles. She is 
thinking of Gerry. In her mind’s eye, she sees him in a big ship, 
plowing the deep, sick, lonely, heart-broken. Gerry, so refined, 
“ the little swell ” as he had been christened by his companions, 
cut off from all that was pleasant or worth having in life. 
Gerry, whose one idea was to be a soldier, to be shut up in a 
horrid counting-house with low clerks. Mignon has the supreme 
contempt for trade that most children of poor soldiers entertain. 
And it lies in her power to avert this grievous future for him and 
to replace it by one as delightful and glorious as only young 


MIGNON, 


41 


day-dreamers can concei\ e. But at what a cost! Mignon shud- 
ders. She isj as I have said, seitisli; the beauty of self-sacrifice 
is a sealed book to her. Then Regina's words come back to her, 
and she pictures herself a queen of beauty, the cynosure of all 
eyes (she has always craved for admiration), w'ealth unbounded, 
unlimited (of this, having no experience, her views are very 
vague, not to say Oriental). She may save Gerry and open fairy- 
land to herself at one stroke. But tlie husband! horrid thought! 
He might die, though. Sir Tristram would feel highly delighted 
and flattered, no doubt, could he be aware of what is passing in 
the mind of his young love. 

“ Yonnie! Yonnie!” Mignon hears herself called in the dis-* 
tance. The terrier pricks up his ears. It is Gerald who still 
calls her by the name his baby lips first lisped. “ Yonnie! Yon- 
nie!” cries the voice, coming nearer, and Mignon answers it by 
a good, ringing, most unladylike “ Hullo!” 

“ You little pig!” he cries, coming up breathless, “ you’ve 
stolen a march upon me and been after those gooseberries.” 

“ I haven' tf'' cries Mignon, stung to indignation by the base 
accusation. “ I never thought of them.” 

“ Oh, all right!” he answers, throwing himself down full length 
on the grass and permitting the terrier to pay him the delicate 
attention of licking his nose. 

Mignon looks at the bonny golden head lying on the grass, 
and thinks again of the deep sea and the counting-house, and 
her soul is troubled within her. 

“ Gerry,” she says, presently, ‘‘ how would you like to go to 
South America ?” 

“I shouldn’t mind,” he answers, nonchalantly. “Hi! good 
dog, fetch him out! fetch him out!” as he and the terrier catch 
sight simultaneously of a little white tuft bobbing up and dowm 
among the bracken. Pepper, undeterred by the recollection of 
many futile chases, dashes off ventre a terre, .“You get stun- 
ning" sport there.’* 

“ I don’t mean for sport,” says Mignon, forgetful or regardless 
of her father’s injunction for secrecy, “I mean, to go and be 
a clerk in a merchant’s house there.” 

“ What!” cries Gerald, a red flush coming to his face, as he 
raises himself on one elbow’ to look at Mignon. A horrid sus- 
picion smites him that she is not joking. 

She repeats the question coolly. 

“What! go into a beastly oflice with a lot of horrid cads! 
What rot you talk, Mignon!” (angrily). 

“ I am not talking rot,” she replies. Then, after a moment’s 
pause, “ Which would you rather — be out in South America 
miserable, as of course you would be, and know that I was 
happy at home, or get your commission and lead a jolly life such 
as you’ve looked forw^ard to, and let me be miserable ?” 

An inkling of her meaning comes to him, but he makes. no 
answer, only waits to hear more. 

“Well?” she says. 

“ When you explain yourself, I will answer you.” 

“Can’t you guess? How dull you must be! Sir Tristram 






\A’ant8 to many me. If I consent, he will buy you a commission 
and start you in life, and I shall be wretched. If I refuse (papa 
has been speculating and losing money), you will have to go to 
South America and earn your living. He told me so.’’ 

Gerald looks at his sister’s golden head lying against the dark 
tree-trunk, and away into the distance where the sunlight lies in 
a great flood upon the open. He looks, but does not see the sun- 
shine; all seems very dark and bitter to him. 

He is a good-hearted lad; though he is like Mignon in face, he 
does not share her selfish disposition; in character he is like his 
mother, as she is like her father. 

Mignon watches him. He is deep in thought; his lip quivers, 
his hand clutches the flower-strewn grass, his eyes have a sight- 
less, far-off look. Pepper has come back from his fruitless hunt, 
breathless and panting, and is trying to enlist his young master's 
sympathy; but Gerald does not notice him. 

After a time, the lad lifts his blonde head and looks at his 
sister. 

“ He is too old for you, but he is a good fellow. Could you 
not like him, Yonnie?” 

“Ah!” says Mignon, bitterly, “you are like all the rest of 
them. You would sell me too.” 

“ No, no, no!” he cries, springing up and putting his arms 
round her; “ that I would not. Don’t think about me, Yonnie 
dear. He is too old; it would be a shame; you sha'n’t make any 
sacrifice for me, I swear. I can earn my bread somehow with- 
out turning clerk. Why, I’d sooner go as a private into a 
cavalry regiment; lots of gentlemen have done it before me.” 

Mignon looks at his fiushed face; some strange emotion seizes 
her; she flings her arms around his neck and bursts into a passion 
of tears. 

Gerry has never seen her cry before, except in spite or anger; 
not often then. He is dreadfully distressed, and does all he can 
to soothe her. 

“ Yonnie! dear, darling little Yonnie! don’t cry! they sha’n’t 
marry you to him! no one shall vex or hurt you while I’m by!” 

All this adds fuel to the fire, or rather water to the fountain, 
for it makes Mignon cry more than ever. When people who are 
not used to the melting mood give way to tears, it is a very serious 
affair. Pepper is distressed beyond measure: he looks from one 
to the other and wags his tail inquiringly, not knowing whose 
part to take, or whether he is called upon to defend them both 
against some common foe. 

After a time Mignon recovers herself and begins to smile 
through her tears. She is not so pretty when she cries as when 
she laughs, but notning in the world could make her face ugly: 
it is only less beautiful. 

“ Let us come and eat the gooseberries,” she says, rising, “or 
the workmen will get them.” 

She says no more about Sir Tristram, only enjoins her brother 
to strict secrecy on the subject. In the afternoon she seeks out 
Regina and puts various questions to her as to the sort of life she 
may expect to lead if she becomes Lady Bergholt. Regina makes 


MIGNON, 


48 


the most of the opportunity, and draws such pictures of society, 
gay doings, opera boxes, diamonds, fair apparel, carriages and 
horses, servants and houses, that Mignon, dazzled, begins to 
think there may be more compensation for her sacrifice than the 
approval of her own conscience and Gerry’s gratitude. 

That evening she announces to Captain Carlyle her intention 
of accepting Sir Tristram. 

‘*God bless you, my dear, dearest child!” cries the delighted 
father, advancing in an access of paternal affection to em- 
brace her. 

Mignon put up both her hands with a gesture of repulsion. 

“ No, no!” she says, with an accent of the liveliest emotion: 
“ do not come near me! do not touch me!” 

Captain Carlyle refrains himself. She must not be agitated 
under any circumstances, he thinks. 

“ I accept him on one condition,” she says; “ on one condition 
only. You will go and see him — writing won’t do — and you will 
tell him that I don’t care two straws about him, and that I never 
t»hall. Tell him that I am going to marry him entirely on Gerry’s 
account, and if he likes to have me after that, he can, but I shall 
think precious little of him. Do you promise me on your word 
of honor to tell him every word I have said ?” 

“ Certainly, my dear, if you wish it.” 

“ On your" honor?” 

“ On my honor.” 

Therewith Mignon turns and goes out, and Captain Carlyle, 
radiant with triumph, begins to consider how he can keep his 
word to Mignon and yet give an answer to Sir Tristram w’hich 
shall not affront him. He knows quite well that if he gives 
her message verbatim he will never have the baronet for his son- 
in-law. 

The following morning he starts joyously on his errand, hav- 
ing first telegraphed to Sir Tristram to announce his visit. 

The latter is in a fever of anxiety. A thousand times has he 
cursed his own folly for giving Mignon three days to make up 
her mind; he has undergone torments, expecting a letter by every 
post, and going from Hie hotel to his club, his club back to the 
hotel, to see if one had arrived. Why should they keep him in 
this agonizing suspense ? If the answer is favorable. Captain 
Carlyle might have sent it at once; if not, there is all the more 
reason for not delaying. He dares not go near Mr. Conyngham; 
he is so restless he feels sure he should betray himself, so he 
makes.an excuse and keeps out of his way. He receives Cap- 
tain Carlyle’s telegram with immense satisfaction; and yet he 
know’s not whether to augur w’ell or ill from his seeking a per- 
sonal interview. His anxiety is at an end when Mignon’s father, 
coming into the room, grasps him by the hand, and. with joyful 
emotion, greets him as a future and honored member of his fam- 
ily. A knot rises in Sir Tristram’s throat; he cannot speak for a 
moment, the relief is so great; he can only grasp Captain Carlyle’s 
hand with a firm, true clasp, vowing in his heart to be all a 
father can desire, to his child. 

The hardest part of Captain Carlyle’s task is taken from him 


44 


MIQNOH, 


b}’ Sir Tristram’s generosity. He speaks almost at once of bis 
intentions with regard to Gerald. He is Mignon’s twin brother, 
he looks upon him as part of her. Sir Tristram’s dearest wish 
is to provide for his future as well as for Mignon’s. Captain 
Carlyle is really touched; how can he deliver the conditions 
under which Mignon’s consent has been given ? He hesitates, 
hums and hahs. Sir Tristram, who is extremely sensitive, sees 
there is something more to be said, and half surmises its nature. 

“ Mignon has the highest regard for you,” begins the unhappy 
father, at last, dashing at his subject, “ but of course she is very 
young — a mere child — and you, you will not expect too much of 
her at first.” 

Sir Tristram feels a pain shoot through his heart: it is the first 
taste of the dregs of this sweet cup. 

“Of course,” he says, hurriedly, “I know I am veri/ much 
older than she is. I cannot hope to inspire any ardent feeling 
in her all at once; but — but if I thought my devotion would not 
ultimately win a return from her, I — I — nothing would induce 
me to seek her hand.” 

“ It will; it will. I have not a doubt of it. All I meant to 
hint was that she is very young and innocent and wayward; we 
have spoilt her sadly, I fear. I w^ant to put you on your guard: 
you have seen her willful ways, you know what she is; I mean, 
if she appears cold or shy or strange at first, you will not be 
vexed or offended ” 

“ Of course not; of course not,” Sir Tristram answers, the 
pain at his heart growing deeper and deeper. “ But let me ask 
you one question. Has any pressure of any kind been put on 
your daughter to induce her to accept me ?” 

“No, I assure you. Your offer was put before her; she took 
time to consider it, and gave me her answer last night.” 

“ And she is quite willing to marry me ?” 

“ Quite willing.” 

“On your word of honor? Forgive me; but this is a very 
serious matter.” 

“ On my word of honor.” 

Sir Tristram is perforce satisfied, but his heart is not so light 
as he would have thought it needs must be, starting with Mign- 
on’s father for the cottage as her accepted lover. 

Mrs. Carlyle and her elder daughters have spent the morning 
in entreating Mignon to receive Sir Tristram in a proper and be- 
coming Avay. Regina’s argument, as usual, makes the most im- 
pression. , 

“ If you look black at him and treat him as if you did not care 
for him he is just the sort of man to give you up there and tlien; 
and then good-bye to all the fine future we have been talking 
about.” 

Late in the afternoon, Mignon, in her room, hears the sound 
of wheels at the gate. Looking out, she sees two figures, and 
concludes that her martyrdom has commenced. She feels an 
unreasoning hatred of Sir Tiistram; but for Regina’s hint, she 
would go to meet him with a sullen froAvn, but she is afraid, 
both for her own sake and for Gerry’s. She will not smooth liei 


MIONOK 


45 


hair, nor try to make herself more fair; on the contrary, she 
elects to go down with ruffled locks and dress thrown on any- 
how. But he never remarks it; he is fighting with his fears and 
nervousness; he longs to take his beautiful darling in his arms 
and kiss her, but dares not. Mindful of her father’s hint, he 
trembles lest he should alarm or disgust her. So, when she 
enters, he goes toward her, takes her reluctant hand, kisses it 
with a noble courtesy, and says: 

‘‘You have made me very happy.” 

Mignon is relieved. A horrible suspicion has possessed her all 
the day that he will want to kiss her; and she is so grateful for 
his forbearance that she smiles quite gTaciously upon him. 

“ Believe me,” he utters, fervently, “ that anything, every- 
thing in the world I can do to win your love and further your 
happiness I will do.” 

Here is a golden opportunity. Mignon has not a delicate 
mind; she grasps it. 

“ Will you get Gerry his commission ?” she asks. 

“ Everything that I would do for my own brother, if I had 
one, I will do for him,” Sir Tristram answers, heartily, pained 
nevertheless that this element of bargaining should be intro- 
duced so quickly into his romance. 

“ And — and ” — (Mignon has the grace to hesitate this time) 
“ will you let me do just as I like, and go to balls and theaters 
and dance ?” 

“You shall do and have everything you can desire as far as it 
lies in my power,” he answers, the pain growing ever deeper. 
“Will you trust me ?” 

Mignon nods. 

“ Let us go out,” she says; “ it is too fine to stop in-doors.” And 
he assents, with a vague feeling of disappointment. 

“Shall we go to the Warren?” he says, and, Mignon being 
agreeable, they start together. All the way the vain young puss 
is stealing furtive glances at her little hand, upon which big 
diamonds are flashing. Thev are the first token of glories to 
come. 

When Sir Tristram returns to town that evening, he goes 
straight to Fred Conyngham’s rooms. His friend is not there — 
is dining out, his servant says. Sir Tristram sits down to await 
his return; he has plenty of food for reflection to occupy him 
meantime. An hour elapses before he hears Fred’s step on the 
stairs; a moment later he enters. 

“At last!” he exclaims. “ I began to imagine you were lost, 
ana had serious thoughts of advertising for you in the ‘ agony 
column.’ Have you been ‘ in search of a wife,’ in imitation of 
Mrs. Hannah More’s interesting hero ?” 

“ I have not only been in search of, but have found her,” an- 
swers Sir Tristram. “ I suppose it would be adding insult to in- 
jury to ask your congratulations ?” 

Fi’ed utters a deep-drawn sigh. “ I congratulate you ?” he says, 
in a melancholy tone. “ Never! but I will mingle my tears with 
yours when the time comes for it, poor old boy! Well” (throw- 
ing himself into a chair with a still deeper sigh), “ begin your 


46 


MIONON. 


rhapsodies! get through them as quickly as you can. Or, stay! 
let me guess. The adored object is a child, your ideal seventeen; 
she is as beautiful as an angel, and she has not a penny to her 
fortune.” 

Who told you?” cries Sir Tristram, eagerly. 

No one! it was a pure guess on my part. And pray ’’(look- 
ing fixedly at his friend), “ is she fond of you?” 

The color deepens in Sir Tristram’s cheek; he has never told a 
lie in his life. 

“ I hope to make her so.” 

“ Oh!” says Fred, not moving his shrewd eyes from his friend’s 
face. “ And is she go«ing to marry you of her own free will, or 
has she been urged to it by her family ?” 

“ Of her own free will.” 

“ So much the worse,” utters Fred. She must be heartless 
and mercenary. It is unnatural for seventeen to marry a man 
it is not fond of, of its own free will. Is she town- bred or 
country-bred ?” 

“ Country,” answers Sir Tristram, shortly. “ She is fresh and 
innocent as a daisy; I — I believe she does like me, but she has 
little willful, teasing ways, and— Fred ” (hotly), “I take it as 
very unfriendly on your part to say these things. You perhaps 
do not think how you hurt me with your caustic speech.” 

Fred jumps up and holds out his hand. 

“ Dear old Tristram,” he says, heartily, “ forgive me. I am a 
brutal old Diogenes, and only fit for a tub. If my tongue is 
rough and bitter, you know that my heart wishes nothing better 
than to see the lie given to its prognostications. There! I have 
had my little spiteful say, and I wish you all the joy life can 
give with your lovely little country rose; she must be charming, 
indeed, if I ever get to think her half good enough for you.” 

And so the friends clasped hands, with hearty sympathy on 
one side, and hearty forgiveness on the other. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ On cite comme, une grosse affaire un astronometorabe dans un puits, 
pendant qu’il cherchait dans le ciel une etoile: qu’on essaye done de 
compter ceux qui, sans etre astronoines, ont fait la meme chute en cher- 
chant une femme, soit sur la terre.” 

The wedding is fixed for October. Sir Tristram does not wish 
to lose more time than he can help: ever since he has been in 
love with Mignon, the thought of his age, which never before 
embarrassed him, troubles him: he would gladly give two thirds 
of his income to be put back ten years. The hearty empresse- 
ment with which, on his return after three years’ absence; he has 
been greeted by his fair friends, might have helped to reassure him; 
but no! Mignon shows him constantly by the most galling little 
words and hints that she thinks him old, and all the flattery, di- 
rect or implied, of other women can do nothing for him. His 
glass shows him every morning a man in the very prime an :1 
vigor of life, in the possession of as perfect health and strength as 
he enjoyed at twenty, a man to whom the word old ” is so 


MIGNON. 


47 


tally inappropriate that every one but a silly, wayward child 
would laugh to scorn the bare idea of its being applied to him. 
No matter! Mignon has pronounced him old, and her verdict 
rankles bitterly in his breast. Not for his own sake. He only 
wants her to think him young enough to bestow her love on, 
young enough to regard as a lover. 

Since the marriage is irrevocably decided upon, Mignon does 
not much care when it takes place. She considers being en- 
gaged detestable, disgusting: better have the whole thing over 
and done with. There are times when she regards her future 
with extreme complacency; for instance, wlien Sir Tristram is 
absent, when Regina betrays envy of her, when she feels herself 
the object of the respectful solicitude of their few neighbors. 
It is pleasant to make excursions to London to buy and order 
lovely apparel for which she has carte blanche, Sir Tristram being 
Captain Carlyle’s banker on the occasion, although he insists 
upon his generosity being kept secret. It is delightful to do a 
thing handsomely at some one else’s expense and to get all the 
credit of it; so Captain Carlyle finds. A carriage and pair always 
awaits Mignon on her arrival in London ; she does her shopping 
in grand style, accompanied usuall}^ by Regina, and charming- 
little lunches are prepared for her at Sir Tristram’s hotel. On 
one occasion she goes to lunch with Mr. Conyngham, who is in 
town for a couple of days en route for Scotland and grouse- 
shooting. Sir Tristram feels as nervous as a schoolboy about 
this meeting between Mignon and his dearest friend; he has an 
intense dread that she will be wayward and he cynical. Neither 
fear is realized. Mignon is as lovely and as gracious as an angel. 
Fred assumes an air of bonhomie that no less astonishes than 
enchants his friend. Mignon and Regina both go away under 
the impression that if ever there was a genial, benevolent mor- 
tal, a genuine lover of his kind, a perfect philanthropist, that 
mortal is Mr. Conyngham; and Sir Tristram is careful not to un- 
deceive them. 

Fred, who has watched Mignon intently all the time, gives ut- 
terance as soon as she departs to this involved reflection: 

“ She is very lovely. Poor Tristram!” 

What does he mean ? 

The lunch is in perfect taste, recherche, ethereal-looking, but 
satisfying. A profusion of flowers, fruits, delicious sweets, 
choice bonbons, feasts the eye, whilst the other senses are not 
neglected. Mr. Conyngham’s lunch is a perfect success. Regina, 
ignorant of his anti-matrimonial ideas, entertains some hopes 
that she has made an impression. 

But Mignon does not always take a palmy view of her mar- 
riage. There are occasions, not unfrequent ones, when she is 
filled with rage and horror at the thought, and feels like some 
wild young thing caught in a trap. She persists in regarding it 
as a sacrifice made for Gerry; she will not allow to herself for 
an instant that her own ambition had any share in her decision. 
Gerry is away at a “crammer’s:” she misses him dreadfully: 
she has no one to exercise her exuberant spirits upon : all the 
others are so “ slow,” Mignon gets the spleen, and vents it upon 


48 


MIGNON. 


every one about her, notably Sir Tristram. Dearly as he loves 
her, Inclined as he is to see nothing but her loveliness and her 
perfection, he cannot but feel hurt and shocked sometimes at 
her behavior. But he defends her gallantly against himself. 
She is unsettled : but when they are once married she will return 
to the sweet winning ways he fancies she had when he first 
knew her. 

It is a lovely afternoon in September. Sir Tristram, who has 
taken up his abode at the Warren, is away on business, and 
Mignon is in one of her very worst tempers. She rages violently 
against the thought of her marriage; she has terrified her fam- 
ily by declaring to them that she will tell Sir Tristram to his face 
as soon as he’ returns that she hates him; and finallj^ she departs 
across the common to her favorite glade, in order to have it 
out with herself. The heather is purpling novr, but Mignon is 
in no humor to heed nature’s beauties; the fern in the glade 
has grown up tall and strong and hides the flower-gems in 
the “enameled sward.” Mignon flings herself down and tears 
up the moss and grass vindictively with her pretty little hands; 
she cannot wreak her vengeance on the fern; it returns her 
violence with interest and makes her fingers smart. 

“What a shame!”^she says, talking to the trees and the rab- 
bits — “ what a crueC wicked shame, to sell me to a man I hate. 
Yes, I hate him for marrying me, and he knows I hate him, 
and he still insists on buying me! He shall know what I 
think of him — if not before, afterward. I wish he was dead!” 

And Mignon, having lashed herself into unbearable rage, 
bursts into angry, spiteful sobs. And so Oswald Carey, com- 
ing to seek, finds her. Poor lad! Ever since he heard of her 
engagement he has been beside himself with misery. He has 
loved her with such a faithful love all these years, and, though 
she has gibed at and flouted him, made a slave and a scape- 
goat of him, somehow he has always persuaded himself that 
she does really care for him and that it is only “ her way.” 
He has never built a chateau d^Espagne of which she was not 
chatelaine, never pictured a future in which hers was not the 
most prominent form, never had a thought of ambition ex- 
cept to glorify her. And his ewe lamb is wrested from him 
by the strong hand of the rich man, his youth and love are 
as reeds against the arms of wealth and nobility. Poor lad! 
heart-sore and wretched as he is, he cannot tear himself from 
the sight of her, though he never conies near when Sir 
Tristram is by, and would sooner die of hunger and thirst 
than share one of his gifts to Mignon. 

She does not hear his footsteps on the velvet moss, he is wit- 
ness of her tears and sobs, and nothing intimates to her that her 
pain and anger are watched by other eyes. Poor fellow! his 
honest heart shares her distress, the tears are in his own eyes, 
he wants to console her, but he hardly dares announce his pres- 
ence. Suddenly she looks up, sees him, and springs to a sitting 
posture. She is glad to have a victim upon whom to vent her 
wrath. 

“How dare you come and pry after me?” she cries, with flash- 


MIGNOX 


4ii 


ing eyes in which the tears are still standing. Don’t you know 
how mean it is to sneak about and spy upon one ? No gentle - 
man would do it!” 

“Don’t be angry with me, Mignon,” he says, humbly. “I 
only came to look for you. I never thouglit of finding you 
like this.” 

“Then noTv perhaps you will go away again. It is enough to 
make any one wretched only to look at your miserable cadaver- 
ous face.” 

“It was not that made you cry,” he says, gently, throwing 
himself down in front of her. 

“ It is no business of yours. I shall cry if I choose ” (with in- 
creased petulance). “ You need not think I was crying because 
I am unhappy. I was crying to — to amuse myself.” 

“ You were crying because you don’t want to marry Sir Tris 
tram,” cries Oswald, eagerly; “you can’t deceive me. Oh, 
Mignon, darling Mignon, stop before it’s too late! you will be 
wretched if you marry him; no amount of money or jewels or 
fine clothes will make up for it. If you dread the idea, what 
will the reality be ?” 

“You are not to call me darling,” says Mignon, with dignity; 
then, happily bethinking her of the unkindest cut of all, “ Sir 
Tristram would not like it.” 

Poor Oswald bites his lip and clinches his fingers. Mignon 
begins to feel better. In her heart she is rather fond of Oswald, 
fonder now than before, but he is her fetich: she loves to bang 
and beat him when she is displeased. True, he is not the 
offender, but that rather adds zest to her vengeance. 

“You do not, cannot care for him,” Oswald says, presently — 
“ a man nearly three times your age.” 

“Oh!” retorts Mignon; “I thought you said once he was a 
man any girl might fancy.” 

“ Did IV I don’t believe it. If I did I was a-^fool.” 

“ That is too apparent to be contradicted,” says Mignon. She 
is getting quite good-tempered now she has some one to make un- 
comfortable.” 

“Yes,” he utters, bitterly, “that is true enough. “I am a 
fool, or I should not be here. You were quite right when you 
said in the summer that the worse you treated me the more I 
should care for you.” 

Mignon throws back her pretty head and laughs; she has not a 
grain of sympathy for him; on the contrary, she likes to make 
him suffer; she has to, and why should he not as well V 

“Don’t pull such a long face, ‘Sir Knight of the Doleful 
Countenance!’ ” she says. 

“ Ah!” he answers, more bitterly still, “ I cannot always dance 
because you pipe, nor laugh for your pleasime when I’ve got the 
heartache,” 

“ Heartache! fiddlesticks! Why should you ha'^e the heart- 
ache ? You haven’t got to marry a man you hate!” says Mignon, 
betraying herself unintentionally. 

Oswald comes nearer and takes her hand; for a wonder she 


50 MIGNOK 

permits him. There is an impassioned look in his faithful, dog- 
like eyes as he exclaims: 

“ Dearest Mignon, think seriously what you are going to do. 
Remember, it is not for a little while, it is perhaps for all your 
life, at all events for the best years of it.” 

“ 1 am afraid he is not at all delicate,” remarks Mignon, 
thoughtfully. “ He might live to be eighty. UghI I should be 
fifty then.” 

“ And when it’s once done, it cant be undone,” continues Os- 
wald. 

“ No,” assents Mignon, gravely. “As the gypsy told me the 
other day, I was going to tie a knot with my tongue I couldn’t 
untie with my teeth. Oh, Osw^ald; it was such fun! We were 
at the gate, and an old brown cunning-looking gypsy came along 
and wanted to tell our fortunes, so I insisted on having mine 
told. And what do you think she said ?” The memory of it is 
so irresistibly mirth -provoking that Mignon throws herself back 
and laughs one of those bewitching laughs that harass the souls 
of her lovers. She has no view to effect now; it is the pure 
ebullition of her delight. “ She said there was many a heart 
sore with thinking of my bright eyes, and one in particular 
(that’s you, I suppose), and I was going to meet a dark young 
man soon who’d fall in love with me the first moment he ever 
clapped eyes on me, and — and ” (Mignon laughs till the tears roll 
down her cheeks) — “ and she took Sir Tristram for my father, and 
oh (my side aches so I don’t think I can tell you!”) Mignon is so 
convulsed she is obliged to bury her face in the grass. 

“Well?” says Oswald, catching the contagion, though he is 
not yet in possession pf the joke. 

“ She said she was quite sure he wasn’t one of the hard-hearted 
fathers and wouldn’t stand in the way of two fond hearts.” 

Having jerked out her story between peals of laughter, Mignon 
throws herself down again and gives vent to her unrestrained 
mirth. Oswald laughs; but he is a good-hearted fellow and 
sensitive, and he cannot help feeling for his rival in such an 
awful position. 

“ What did he say ?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Mignon answers, sitting up and wiping the 
tears from her cheeks. “ I turned and fled, and never stopped 
till I got to my own room, where I nearly died.” 

Oswald contemplates her in thoughtful silence. 

“ A penny for your thoughts,” she says, becoming conscious 
of his attentive scrutiny, 

“ You would not care to hear them.” 

“ Yes, I should.” Mignon is intensely inquisitive. “ Do tell 
me!” (coaxingly). 

“ I was. thinking, if you were not so lovely, how people would 
hate you!” 

Mignon colors. 

“ You are a beast,” she says. 

“ Beast and fool!” he answers; “ you have called me both this 
afternoon. They are pretty words in a pretty girl’s mouth.” 


MIGNON. 


5t 


And so you are— both,” she answers; and I hate you. Now 
you can go. If you don’t, I shall.” 

“ No, you won’t,” cries the poor lad, humbly. ‘‘ I only said if 
you were not lovely; but you are; so you may do anything and 
people only love you all the better.” 

Mignon is mollified, and they fall to friendly talk. Oswald is 
urging her to fly with him from the hated marriage; he has a 
pretty little plan cut and dried for carrying her off under the 
very noses of both lover and father. She lets him talk on; she 
has not the remotest idea of accepting his protection, but the 
idea of an elopement is rather romantic, and pleases her. 

Oswald is all in hot, eager earnest; he verily believes he has 
made some impression on her; and she allows him to think so. 

The sun is well on his downward journey through the blue 
sky; he is giving broad farewell smiles to the big tree-trunks, to 
the velvet moss and the green fern; he lies redly on Mignon’s 
fair head and kindles her blue eyes, that look like sapphires, 
only that no sapphire was ever so deep, so brilliant, or so ex- 
quisitely blue. 

“ I must go,” she says. “ He is coming back to-night, and we 
dine at eight.” 

As the words are yet on her lips, there is a sound of wheels, 
and Sir Tristram’s dog-cart passes the end of the glade. He sees 
the two standing together, and wonders, with secret pain, if 
Mignon cares for the lad. 

“ You will think over what I have said, won’t you, darling ?” 
says Oswald, eagerly; and she nods assent. 

All that evening Mignon is so supremely capricious and tor- 
menting that Sir Tiistram’s suspicions are confirmed. He passes 
a night of sleepless misery. Early the next morning he sends a 
note asking Captain Carlyle to come to him. When the latter 
arrives, he is so agitated he can scarcely command his voice. 

“My dear fellow,” cries his father-in-law elect, “what ails 
you ? You look downright ill!” 

“ Look here, Carlyle,” says Sir Tristram, “ I fear I have been 
guilty of an egregious act of folly in thinking it possible your 
daughter could ever come to care for me. Don’t interrupt me! — 
it is evident from the way she treats me that she is indifferent to 
me; and, God knows! I would rather cut off my right hand 
than marry her, poor child, if I thought she shrank from me. 
It will be an awful blow to me; but anything” (agitatedly), 
“ anything rather than let her suffer. Let me still be the friend 
of the family, let me look on Gerald as a brother, or a son; but I 
entreat you to tell me if Mignon does not care for me, or — or 
cares for some one else. Don’t leave it till it is too late, for 
Heaven's sake!” 

Captain Carlyle is well-nigh distraught. 

“What do you mean?” he cries. “She has never seen any 
one. Whom else could she care for ?” 

“ Young Carey,” he replies. “ I have seen from the first that 
he was fond of her; and last night I saw them standing together, 
and he seemed agitated.” 

“ Curse him!” mutters Captain Carlyle, under his breath, 


52 


MIGNOK 


What! let Sir Tristram slip between his fingers, topple down 
this tower of sti^ength, snap the mainstay of his future! Never! 
Before he leaves the Warren he succeeds in persuading Sir Tris- 
tram that there is no doubt as to Mignon’s affection for him, that 
she has freely and willingly chosen him, and that all these ca- 
pricious airs are simply the result of her willfulness and her 
spoilt childishness. 

As he walks back to the cottage he is ‘‘breathing vengeance’* 
against Oswald and Mignon. He is a passionate man, and his 
fury is roused to the highest pitch of which it is capable. Oh, 
how he longs for the good old days when fathers could whip 
their recalcitrant daughters and shut them up in a closet with 
bread and water till they returned to a sense of their duty! He 
is so angry that, hot as his haste is, he compels himself to take a 
turn across the common before seeing Mignon, lest he should be 
guilty of some act of violence toward her. In spite of this 

E recaution, he cannot restrain his rage when he sees her, and 
eaps the most furious words upon her. Mignon does not an- 
swer a syllable; the dogged, sullen look that is the most danger- 
ous expression of her temper comes into her fair face at the out- 
set, and deepens as he goes on. 

When Captain Carlyle has poured all the vials of his wrath, 
she leaves him, and goes to her room thirsting for and deter- 
mined on revenge. When Sir Tristram comes to see her, she 
never answers by a word to the knockings of her mother and sis- 
ters, who dare not rap too loudly lest he should hear them and 
surmise the state of affairs. Fortunately, he is en route for Lon- 
don, and cannot stay very long on account of losing the train. 
Captain Carlyle accompanies him. In the afternoon Miss Mign- 
on sallies forth, meets Oswald (her father has forbidden her 
ever to speak to him again), and tells him that she is ready to 
fly with him. She will pretend illness next day; he is to have a 
carriage waiting on the common; she will join him shortly be- 
fore nine, in time to catch the train for London. She is to goto 
the house of Oswald’s old nurse, who is married to a butcher in 
the borough, and who would do “ anything in the world” for 
him, he tells Mignon. 

Oswald leaves her with winged heels to make his arrange- 
ments, and Mignon goes back to the bosom of her family, hug- 
ging delightedly to her breast the thought of the dire revenge 
she is about to inflict on every member of it. When Sir Tids- 
tram and Captain Carlyle return from town, she is in the most 
charming humor in the world; the former is pursuaded that his 
fears were unfounded, the latter congratulates himself upon his 
“ firmness ” in the morniug. 


MIGNON, 




CHAPTER IX. 

* I know not,* said the princess, “whether raarriag© b© mere than 
one of the innumerable modes of human misery. 1 am sometimes dis- 
posed to think with the severer casuists of most nations, tiiat marriage 
is rather permitted than approved, and that none, but by the instigation 
of a passion too much indulged, entangle themselves with dissoluble 
compacts. — Jiasselas. 

The (lay following, when Sir Tristram comes to pay his usual 
visit, he brings Mignon a collar of pearls with a diamond clasp, 
a magnificent diamond pendant, and ear-rings to match. He 
also brings her a basket of peaches and a lovely box of French 
bonbons, Mignon begins to think it would be rather a shame 
to spoil poor Gerry’s prospects. Sir Tristram has, besides, a pro- 
posal to make to her. How would she like to go abroad after 
their marriage and on by easy stages to Italy ? Fie has had for- 
eign travel enough to last him his life, but, ever thoughtful for 
Mignon, he refiects that it might be a (iisadvantage to her to ap- 
pear in the world never having been anywhere or seen anything. 
This proposal charms the young lady. She decides that every 
sacrifice must be made for Gerry at whatever cost to herself. So, 
whilst poor Oswald is waiting in an agony of impatience on the 
common, counting the moments, until, to his despair, he finds it 
is too late under any circumstances to catch the last train, 
Mignon is calmly coquetting with Sir Tristram in the garden by 
moonlight, and he, charmed with her new-born gi’aciousness, is 
more infatuated tluin ever. 

Mignon is rather sorry for Oswald, but she could not very well 
warn him of her change of mind without betraying herself. 
He, poor lad, is the prey to a thousand wild fancies, firmly be- 
lieves that their plot has been discovered and she perhaps put in 
durance vile. At last he sends the fly away in despair, and 
creeps toward the house to try to find out what is going on 
within. As he draws near, he hears the sound of Mignon’s ring- 
ing laugh: a moment later he catches sight of her lovely face up- 
turned in the moonlight to Sir Tristram, who is regarding her 
with all the rapture of a favored lover. A stony feeling creeps 
over Oswald, as though, instead of looking on that golden head, 
he was gazing on the Medusa’s writhing snakes. He creeps 
away out of sight and hearing, and then flings himself wildly 
on the common and gives vent to his passion of rage and despair. 
When he takes his way homeward, he is a sadder and a wiser 
man. Never again, he swears, will he see that fair, false face. 
Nor does he; and Mignon is thus saved from a great deal of em- 
barrassment. Against her father she is bitterly enraged. He 
cannot win a word or look from her save absolutely necessary 
yeas and nays, though he tries his hardest to ( onciliate her. It 
will be very unpleasant, he reflects, if as Lady Berghoit she 
should turn against him and carry her husband with her. Be- 
dsides, she is really his favorite child; and he feels remorse for his 
outburst, which he no longer congratulates himself upon as 
“judicious firmness.” 


54 


MIQNOK 


The days wear on apace, and Million alternates between self- 
gratulation and angry regret. The nearer her wedding-day 
looms, the more unsatisfactory it seems to her, the more of a 
martyr is she pleased to consider herself — something between 
Iphigenia and Jephthah’s daughter. 

In spite of the evidence of jewel-cases and gorgeous apparel, 
she persists in ignoring any advantage to herself; she is the 
victim of her father’s rashness and Gerry’s ambition. By her 
wayward and fractious behavior she drives her family to the 
verge of despair; they long with ardor for the wedding-day, 
after which Sir Tristram will have to bear the brunt of her 
humors. He, luckily for himself, is called to his northern prop- 
erty on important business, and sees very little of her during the 
ten days that immediately precede the “event.” He has been 
considerably exercised in his mind on the subject of a best 
man; he knows it is no use asking Fred, who has an utter 
horror of weddings; every one of his intimate friends is away 
shooting or abroad. What is to be done ? He meets Raymond 
L’Estrange one day passing through town, and asks the favor 
somewhat diffidently of him. Raymond accepts the office. 

At last the day arrives, the day impatiently looked for by 
every one but Mignon. It is a windy, showery day, with fitful 
gleams of sunshine, not the sort of day one would choese for a 
wedding. Sir Tristram is too happy to care about the weather, 
Mignon too miserable. She is within an ace of saying “ No ” at 
the altar, but refrains, and issues from the church door. Lady 
Bergholt. The first gleam of satisfaction she feels is when she 
hears herself called “ My lady.” 

Raymond has not been able to get a good glimpse of her yet. 
Her costly lace veil somewhat conceals her face, wliich is, perhaps, 
well, since its expression might startle some of the bystanders. 
He can only see that she has ruddy, golden hair and an exquisite 
figure. But when her veil is removed he absolutely draws in his 
breath. Never in his life, he thinks, has he seen anything so 
perfectly lovely as Lady Bergholt. “I congratulate you. Sir 
Tristam; you are fortunate,” he whispers, heartily, almost en- 
viously, and the happy bridegroom smiles radiantly. At this 
moment he would not change places with any created human 
being; three hours later I think he would have considered him- 
self the gainer by exchange with a crossing-sweep or a galley- 
slave. 

They are at breakfast. Raymond can scarcely take his eyes 
from the bride. He is wishing devoutly that lie had met her be- 
fore Sir Tristram, and the bride steals many a furtive glance at 
him, and thinks she has never seen a man half so handsome. 
She is thinking, too, with intense bitterness, “If I had not tied 
myself to this old man I might have married one who was young, 
and handsome, and rich too,” 

The carriage is waiting to convey the happy pair to a station 
eight miles distant. It is drawn by four bays, and was to have 
been open, but a shower is apprehended. Mignon comes dowp, 
looking lovely in her charming toilet, but white as her own lace. 
She does not smile, nor evince emotion of any kind. Her own 


MIQNON. 


m 


family are painfully conscious that there is something strange 
about her. If so lovely a face could look vindictive, one might 
say that was the expression of it. Raymond says to himself. 
** By Jove! she does not like him. What a shame!” 

Lady Bergholt permits her mother and sisters to embrace her, 
though she holds nerself as rigid as an icicle; she kisses Gerry, 
the only one whom she thus favors; from her father she turns 
deliberately away, and he busies himself about the carriage, 
afraid to seem conscious of her behavior. Sir Tristram does not 
see this little episode; he helps his wife into the carriage, jumps in 
after her, and the four handsome bays start with a flourish. At 
the last moment, the old slippers that have been carefully pre- 
pared for the occasion are forgotten. 

Sir Tristram feels the happiest man in the world. During his 
engagement he has sometimes had nervous fears that something 
would step between him and Mignon, and that he would never 
know the intense bliss of calling her wife. All fear and doubt 
have vanished now; this exquisite being is his very own. In the 
fullness of his heart, he turns and clasps her in his arms. 

“ Don’t touch me!” she almost shrieks, disengaging herself 
violently from his embrace. “ I hate youT And with that she 
falls to bitter weeping. 

Sir Tristram’s arms fall nerveless by his side; an awful horror 
seizes him. And yet she cannot mean it; her nerves are un- 
strung; that is all. 

“ You know it!” she gasps, between her sobs, all her pent-up 
rage and misery breaking forth; ‘'you knew it all along; but 
you ivould marry me.” 

Sir Tristram puts his hand to his head. 

“ Oh, God! what have I done ?” he mutters. 

“I wish I was dead!” sobs Mignon. 

“ Child,” he cries, hoarsely, “ have some human pity upon 
me! If I had known this only this morning, I would rather 
have put a bullet through my heart than marry you.” 

“You did know it!” she retorts. “ I told you at first, in the 
message I sent you by papa.” 

‘ ‘ W hat message ?” 

“ He promised me on his honor to tell you what I said.” / 

“ And what was that ?” 

“ That I did not care for you, and never should; that I only 
accepted you for Gerry’s sake; and that if you liked to take me 
on those terms, you could.” 

In his heart, Sir Tristram curses Captain Carlyle. If he had 
only told him the truth! The future stands a yawning gulf be- 
fore him — an awful abyss, into which he has not only plunged 
himself, but this unhappy girl. 

“ As God is my witness,” he murmurs, brokenly, “ he never 
told me this. I believed, at all events, that if you did not love 
me now I could make you in time.” 

“ Make me!” she echoes, scornfully. “ How could you, when 
you are more than old enough to be my father ?” 

This is the revenge Mignon has promised herself; it is the 
thought of telling him these bitter truths that has buoyed her 


5(5 


MIGNOK 


up. It is not in her hard little soul to fathom the agony she is 
inflicting on this noble heart; bitter words only make her angry, 
and she can retaliate. Nothing any living being could say could 
wound her a thousandth part as she is wounding the unhappy 
man beside her. 

What shall he do ? he wonders, in speechless pain. Shall he 
stop the carriage and take her back home again, or shall he go 
on to Dover, whither they are bound, telegraph to her father, 
and, leaving her in possession of his title and wealth, fly the 
country forever ? He is a proud man; he shrinks from public 
exposure, above all, from ridicule. He leans back in the car- 
riage like one stunned, feeling as if some awful disgrace had 
befallen him, or rather as if he had brought it upon himself. He 
ought to have known. Had he not had warnings? When 
Mignon treated him with caprice and disdain, why had he not 
attributed it to its right source ? why had he been fool enough 
to take her father’s word for her liking ? 

Mignon, having vented her spleen, feels better. She dries her 
eyes, and lets down the window that the wind may cool her hot 
cheeks, bethinking herself that she does not want people to see 
she has been crying. She is not at all sorry nor ashamed of her 
outburst, but rather congratulates herself upon having had the 
Spartan fortitude to carry out her vindictive intention. Then, 
quite oblivious of the man she has stricken with such bitter 
agony, she falls to thinking about Oswald and wondering if he 
is feeling very bad about her marriage; then the handsome Mr. 
I’Estrange occupies her thoughts, and is in his turn ousted by her 
new maid, whom she thinks an awful nuisance. By the time 
she reaches the station, she has quite recovered her serenity; but 
Sir Tristram, as he hands her out, is ashy pale, and looks like a 
man who has seen some awful vision. The valet and the maid 
remark it; so do the post-boys. Mignon does not condescend to 
glance at him until he is seated opposite to her in the train. 

“How old he looks!” she says to herself — “ older even than I 
thought before.” 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Yes! to lie beneath a walnut-tree or cedar in a garden 

Quaint, old-fashioned, shut away from all the murmurs of the 
crowd, 

Of whose gate some sculptured figure, Love or Time, should be the 
warden, 

And where only voice of singing birds should dare to breathe 
aloud.” 

Violet Fane, 

Mrs. Stratheden always leaves London for her country-seat 
the flrst week in July. Her instincts are gregarious, she is fond 
of society, could hardly indeed (so her friends say) live long with- 
out it, but she is passionately fond of the country. “ One could 
not appreciate it thoroughly,” she says, smiling, “ if one were 
not able to contrast it with the din, and bustle, and weariness of 
cities. I should not know the delight of coming back if I never 


MIGNON. 


57 


left it.” So, the first convenient day in July, she, Mrs. Forsyth, 
her friend (she never calls her by the hireling name of ‘‘ com- 
panion ”) and the greater part of her establishment, take leave of 
Mayfair and speed homeward by the Great Northern express 
to the Manor House. There, for a fortnight, Olga takes what 
she calls her holiday. Not a guest does she bid, not a visit does 
she pay, but roams about her grounds the live-long day, plucks 
gorgeous or tender-colored roses, seeks crimson strawberries 
amidst their green nest of leaves, and gathers them with dainty 
fingers, paces to and fro under the big firs whence the sun 
draws a keen strong fragrance, over a velvety green moss so 
luxuriously soft, so delicately shaded, that no carpet from 
Eastern looms could hope to vie Avith it. Or, perhaps, she lies 
indolently among the cushions of her boat on the lakelet, and 
lets the clear cool water trickle through her fingers, or swings 
gently to and fro in her hammock between the trees on the tiny 
island. 

“ A hammock,” writes Edward Delaney to John Flemming in 
that charming story, Marjorie Daw,” “ is very becoming 
when one is eighteen, and has gold hair, dark eyes, and a blue 
illusion dress looped up after the fashion of a Dresden china 
shepherdess, and is chaiissee like a belle of the time of Louis 
Quatorze.” It is some time since Olga Stratheden was eighteen, 
and her hair is not gold but dark, yet I take the. liberty to doubt 
whether many girls of eighteen could match her grace or her 
chaussures as she “ sways like a pond-lily in the golden after- 
noon,” to quote Delaney again. Olga has the most beautifully 
shaped head in the world; its poise is perfect. Her hands have 
been modeled many a time; so might her feet have been, had 
she permitted it. Had Olga lived in the days of powder and 
patches, she would have been a beauty; it w^as often said to her, 
“You should have been a French marquise in the last century.” 
She had assumed the dress more than once at a fancy dress ball, 
and had felt herself very near possessing the gift she had longed 
for most of all. Why did she long for it? Most women desire 
beauty because it begets love. But Olga has been loved more 
than many a beautiful woman. 

This is her story. 

Some years ago, the Bishop of Lawn was summoned to the 
bedside of a dying man. To console him with the last rites of 
the church ? to steady his trembling feet on the brink of the 
dark waters ? to soothe the pangs of a young spirit snatched 
from life, love, all the Avorld deems fair ? No, none of these. 
He has been sent for to marry him. Olga is the bride: the dying 
man is her first cousin, George Stratheden, of whose life she has 
been the sole love. Of those present there is but one whose 
eyes are dry, whose voice is firm; it is the bridegi’oom. He is 
content, nay, glad, for at this price only he knows could he ever 
have attained the dearest wish of his life. 

When the ceremony is over, a smile comes into his fair young 
face, a smile such as a bridegroom might wear who had life and 
love, not the cold arms of the King of Terrors awaiting him, 
«nd. lifting his blue eyes, he whispers: 


MIGNOK 


m 


Kiss me, darling wife.” 

Olga, heart-broken, flings herself down beside him; it is too 
much for her tense nerves; she swoons. 

One more retrospect. 

Mr. Stratheden and Captain Sefton married two sisters, daugh- 
ters of a poor baronet. Mr. Stratheden was rich and middle- 
aged; Captain Sefton young, handsome, not overburdened with 
means. Each sister was content with, and happy in, her choice. 
Mrs. Stratheden was a woman of simple tastes; the country life 
it pleased her husband, a thorough sportsman, to lead, suited her 
admirably. She had only one object in life, to make him happy; 
this object divided itself into two equal halves when her son and 
only child was born. 

Mrs. Sefton was devoted to society. She and her husband 
lived in a vortex of gayety; neither was happy without it. To 
them also was born one child, Olga, christened after a Russian 
princess, an intimate friend of Mrs. Sefton’s, who volunteered to 
be her godmother. Some costly toys, various bonbon boxes, and 
a pair of diamond ear-rings bequeathed in her will, testified to 
her discharge of the duties of sponsorship. Olga never remem- 
bered to have seen her handsome, autocratic godmother; she had 
been vexed as a child by the strangeness of her name, on which 
other children made disparaging comment, but as she grew up 
she came to like it, and what had before given her a taste for it, 
its singularity, became its charm. Olga was fond of her mother, 
but she adored her father; so that when Mrs. Sefton died, still 
quite young, the child could sob herself to sleep on her father's 
breast, and wake, feeling that what she loved best was still left 
to her. 

Captain, Colonel Sefton now, devoted as he was to his little 
daughter, began to discover the inconvenience of being left 
alone in the world with a young lady who required to be edu- 
cated, particularly as he had a rooted aversion for schools. 
Olga, though she had a sweet disposition, was proud and in- 
tensely sensitive. Colonel Sefton understood her character, and 
saw perfectly that what Olga was to develop into as a woman 
depended almost entirely upon the person or persons who in- 
fluenced her young years. Ah! those young years, that are like 
the tendrils of the vine when they begin to climb and twine, 
ready to grow either to the stout wall and live at peace and 
shelter there, or to creep round rotten sticks and worm-eaten 
lattice-work, to be blown away and torn and ruined when the 
wild winds beat about them. Ah, parents! take care you give 
your children the stout wall to cling to, not the crumbled wood- 
work! For Olga’s sake, then. Colonel Sefton desired to find a 
woman gentle, firm, pleasant-mannered, lady-like, above all 
things sympathique (I think that word expresses the meaning 
better than sympatluitic), and who should possess a certain 
amount of youth and comeliness. He had a theory about good 
looks, particularly in the opposite sex; he did not believe in a 
woman unless she looked good, or, rather, was good to look at. 
But when he set himself to the task of selecting this rara avis, 
mfi tried to enlist the help of his fnir friends, they one and all. 


MIGNON. 


59 


even the most charming and the most reasonable, arched their 
eyebrows, drew down their mouths, and smiled or frowned as 
the case might be, but gave as tiieir ultimatum that it was not 
to be done. If only now he would not insist upon the gov- 
erness being young and good-looking! But on that subject 
Colonel Sefton was as firm as his fair counselors were obstinate 
(I believe J have given the correct (f) adjectives to the sexes). 

My dear Colonel Sefton, if you have a young governess, you 
must not live in the same house, or you must have an elderly 
personas chaperon.’’ This is what one lady tells him. “But 
you know,” says another, delicately, “ though you may have the 
very best intentions — I am quite sure you have — the world will 
talk.” “ The end of it will be, Charlie,’' cries the third and most 
intimate. “ you will marry the horrid creature; and a great deal 
of good that will do Olga.” 

Colonel Sefton is thoroughly perplexed. At last Mrs. Strathe- 
den cuts the Gordian knot for him; she is a kind, good woman, 
always more ready with help and comfort than advice. 

“ Let Olga come to us,” she says. “ Choose your own gov- 
erness, we have plenty of room for her; she need not incon- 
venience us in any way; and as often as you like to see the child, 
come to us, or she shall go to you. It will be good for Georgie 
and us too. We are two very quiet, stupid people, and want 
brightening up.” After taking much time to reflect, and con- 
sidering every pro and con^ Colonel Sefton accepted the kind 
offer, and there was not one of the parties interested who had 
not thorough cause for self-gratulation on his decision. 

Olga was not told at first; she went, as supposed, on a visit to 
the Manor House with her father; but before a fortnight was 
over, she was so devoted to every member of the family, to ev^ry 
dog, cat, horse, and bird about the place, that the mere hint 'of 
leaving, artfully thrown out one day, sent her into such a torrent 
of sobs and tears that Colonel Sefton and Mrs. Stratheden could 
scarcely forbear exchanging a smile (rather a sad one on the 
father’s part) at the success of their stratagem. But it had not 
entered into Olga’s mind that it was a question of deciding be- 
tween her father and her new friends. When she realized that, 
she did not hesitate for a moment. Ultimately, however, when 
Colonel Sefton promised to come very often to see her, and as- 
sured her that she would in reality see more of him if she stayed 
at the Manor House, than if she lived with him in town, Olga 
was persuaded, and from that day to the present it has been her 
home. 

After two or three failures. Colonel Sefton at last found the 
ideal governess in Mrs. Forsyth, the widow of a naval officer. 
She was scarcely more than a girl, but i^ossessed all the attri- 
butes that Olga’s father considered most important. Besides 
these she had immense tact, thp^ desire to ijlease, and by pleasing 
to secure her own future. She soongained unbounded influence 
over the child, and used it faithfully and conscientiously. Her 
maxims, it is true, savored rather more of worldly wisdom than 
Christian precept; it was to "Mrs. Forsyth indisputably Olga 


dO MIGNOK 

owed that gracious tact and savoir-plaire rYed Conyngham ad- 
mired so much. 

At eighteen Olga was the most gracious, sweet-mannered, dis- 
tinguished-looking girl possible to imagine. Her father and 
aunt adored her; as for poor George, her cousin, just coming of 
age, he had always been her most devoted slave. Mr. Strathe- 
den had been dead four years, leaving his son a very handsome 
unentailed property. Olga loved her cousin very sincerely as a 
cousin, but refused to think of making the tie stronger between 
them. Poor George would not be satisfied with her cousinly 
affection, and fumed and fretted himself nearly into a fever. 
His mother pleaded his cause; Olga turned a deaf ear. Mrs. 
Forsyth was entreated to use her influence, but declined, and 
thereby increased her power over the girl fourfold. There was 
no persecution used; next to her son, Mrs. Stratheden loved 
Olga: she \vanted both to be happy. Just before her eighteenth 
birthday, Olga wrote to her father: 

My dearest Papa, — Have you forgotten that I am nearly 
eighteen? When am I ‘ coming out?’ Mary and Alice Vane 
are going to be presented this season. I think, for more reasons 
than one, that it would be good for me to leave home for a little 
while, although I am as happy as the day is long, and shall miss 
them all dreadfully.” 

On receipt of this letter. Colonel Sefton went at once to his 
sister. Lady Wyvenhoe, who agreed to present Olga and to take 
charge of her for the season. 

May comes, the fairest month of the year, lavish of sweet 
scents and sounds and tender coloring; but what are the charms 
of nature to the charms of art ? How can the lilies and pansies, 
the primroses and the blue hyacinths, the pink hawthorn and 
the golden showers of laburnum, vie with the guirlandes on a 
court train ? what worth have the dewdrops spangling the green 
hedge-rows by the side of the imperishable dewdrops flashing 
on proud heads and white (or, it may be, mahogany-colored) 
bosoms? what are the strains of the nightingale, blackbird, and 
thrush, and the soft wooing of ring-doves to the Italian opera 
or Signor Squagliatowski’s matinee f what all the lovely variety 
of spring foliage to the two rows of trees in Rotten Row which 
as yet give but sparse shelter from the sunY ardent rays ? what 
the glorious floods of silver moonlight in the country to the thou- 
sand wax candles at Lady G.’s reception? What, indeed ? 

Olga feels stiffed at first, after the boundless breathing- space 
she has been used to in the country ;‘^ut it is not long ere the 
subtle power of art begins to f^'^rcise its fascinations over her. 
Her debut is most successful; Lady Wyvenhoe, a very good 
judge, is perfectly satisfied with the impression her niece cre- 
ates. People do not say Miss Sefton is lovely, but they call her 
charming (than which, if sincerely meant, few words can be 
more flattering), elegant, distinguee, thoroughbred. And men 
add, when appealed to, “ Quite good-looking enough for any- 
thing.” ' - 

In the vortex amidst which she i^Iunged Olga has yet time 


MIGNOK 


61 


to lose her heart — wor Oiga!^ Among the men who come fre- 
quently to Lady Wyvenhoe’s house, who siirround her niece 
when she appears in the world, is the Honorable Oliver Beaure- 
gard. He is no longer a young man, nor does he affect youtn- 
ful airs. “ I have lived a long time in the world,” is a saying 
frequently on his lips to women, uttered with a charming ten- 
derness of manner. Just before Olga met him, he had taken the 
enormous leap that separates a youngish man from a middle- 
aged or oldish one — had passed from thirty-nine to forty. He 
liad given the best years of his life to the study of women: by 
this time he knew — or thought he knew — them by heart, at every 
age, in every rank, condition, and phase. “Far more interest- 
ing study than fossil remains, ttie antiquity of man, the missing 
link, or any of Nature's other vagaries,” he had been heard to 
say. Not that he was in the least given to swaggering about his 
knowledge; nor was he ever known to speak of a woman indi- 
vidually except in a merely commonplace manner. “ A man 
who has anything to talk about never talks,” was one of his 
chief maxims, although he forbore to enunciate it. Women 
were offen curious to see him and to make his acquaintance. 
They were invariably disappointed at first. “Really?” (with a 
slight raising of the brows) “ that the dangerous Captain Beau- 
regard? there is nothing in the least Juanesque in his appear- 
ance!” 

On the contrary, he is a very quiet, gentlemanlike-looking man, 
without the slightest approximation to the languishing, fasci- 
nating airs commonly supposed to be inseparable from a Love- 
lace. He is not even handsome, but has a good figure, a low- 
toned voice, and wonderfully expressive eyes. With these gifts 
he has contrived before Olga meets him to make more havoc in 
the susceptible breasts of the fair than any acknowledged 
“ beauty man” of the age. 

Captain Beauregard admires Olga; he looks upon her with 
more respect than he is wont in his heart to accord her sex. 
Outwardly no man could appear to feel a more reverential devo- 
tion for women: it is one of his weapons. A man who affects 
to make light of women, to sneer at them, to speak coarsely to 
and of them, damages himself unspeakably in their eyes. They 
may tolerate him, ma}' laugh at and with him, but in their 
hearts they dislike and despise him. 

Oliver Beauregard saw at a glance that Olga respected herself, 
first and most important step toward gaining the respect of oth- 
ers. She was full ot laughter, of. brightness, of gay wit, but 
there was a pureness and dignity about her which forbade any 
one to be coarse in her presence. And then society had not ar- 
rived at the state where it is to-day, when a man is permitted, if 
not encouraged, to be gross in the best society, and may tell 
with impunity in Belgravia and Mayfair bon mots (9) culled a 
good deal further north or a very little further south of those 
aristocratic localities. 

Every one knew that Captain Beauregard had no intention of 
marrying. Dowered maidens and wealthy widows had flung 
themselves at his head, ready and willing to worship him 


62 


MIGNON. 


with their bodies and endow him wdth all their worldly goods; 
but he did not permit the sacrifice. He had enough to live upon 
like a gentleman; all the houses in the kingdom were open to 
him — all but a few which he had closed forever upon himself. 
When he paid such devotion to Miss Sefton, no one made much 
remark about it; it was Beauregard’s way to single out a 'fresh 
woman every season; the only thing that was unusual was his 
wasting so much time on an ingenue. Lady Wyvenhoe was 
rather pleased at his attention to her niece; nothing brought a 
girl more into notice than Captain Beauregard’s approval. 

“ It is a great compliment to you, my dear,” she said to Olga. 
“ He is not a marrying man, but he will draw others. Only be 
sure not to lose your heart to hftn.” 

Olga only replied by a pensive smile. In her owm heart she 
was quite sure, as many a woman had been before, that he loved 
her. It was true that he never told her so, never breathed a 
word that the wiliest of her sex could have construed into a 
hint of marriage; but Olga did not look so far ahead as that; 
her pure, fresh young heart, unbreathed upon by any other love, 
was his to be had for the asking, nay, given without any ask- 
ing, amply repaid, she thought, by the preference he seemed 
to give her. But in her heart of hearts, without a shadow of 
vanity, she believed he loved her as she loved him; those won- 
derful eyes of his told her so, and she would have staked her 
life upon their truth. Every one else knew strange stories of 
ruined hearths and lives laid waste that the wonderful eyes had 
had their share in, but, somehow, people never told that kind 
of story in Olga’s presence. 

It was “ always the woman’s fault,” women said. Captain 
Beauregard had invariably behaved like a gentleman, was ready 
to give any satisfaction demanded of him, and once, when his 
adversary had sworn to have his life, had fired in the air. It 
was impossible to look at him, to witness his quiet, irreproach- 
able demeanor, and to believe he had ever led a woman into 
error. Absurd! it was her own willful wickedness. There were 
some women, however, with stainless reputations, who did not 
agree to this verdict. Nevertheless they did not think tit to 
negative it. 

What Captain Beauregard felt for Olga it is not easy to 
decide. That she possessed some charm for him was evident 
from the time he devoted to her. It may have been her fresh- 
ness, her purity, her arch gayety, the unmistakable presence of 
a heart and soul that the touch of his master-hand had called 
forth; it may have been that she awoke in him the possibility of 
a nobler and better future, awoke the power to believe what he 
had disbelieved so utterly till now, that passion may mingle with 
reverence, and that there is a love which defies satiety. 

Olga’s ardent nature did battle royal with her pride. She 
cared for nothing in the wide world but to be near him; she only 
counted the hours w^hen he was present, her heart beat with tri- 
umph when he approached her, her lustrous eyes shone with 
tenfold fire as she welcomed him; and yet she was fighting with 
all her might not to show w^at she felt to the world. From 


MIGNOK 


63 


him, believing what she did in her innocent heart, she had no 
faintest desire of concealment: if there were glory or triumph to 
him in her poor love, let him drink the cup to the last drop, 
Olga was passionately fond of dancing, but the most rapture- 
breathing strains, the most perfectly-accomplished partner, could 
give her no joy like that she felt when she laid her little hand 
on Oliver Beauregard’s arm when the dance was over and he 
took her away to get cool, or to find her aunt, or whatever the 
pretext might be. Captain Beauregard did not dance. 

Colonel Sefton was in Norway. After the first two or three 
weeks of attendance upon his daughter, he left her to his sister's 
care. London seasons had become a weariness to his flesh. 
Had her father been with her, he would certainly not have per- 
mitted her to see much of Captain Beauregard; but he was in- 
nocently fishing the deep pools for big salmon and going placidly 
to bed by daylight in the Norway summer nights. Lady Wyven- 
hoe was unsuspicious; she saw that Olga liked to talk to Captain 
Beauregard, but she also seemed to take pleasure in the society 
of other men. When Olga refused a very eligible offer of mar- 
riage, her ladyship was a little puzzled and vexed; still, the girl 
was only eighteen; there was plenty of time. 

The season came to an end at last. Olga, heavy-hearted, went 
back to the Manor House. 

CHAPTER XI. 

“ A little sorrow, a little pleasure, 

Fate meets us from the dusty measure 
That holds the date of all of us; 

We are born with travail and strong crying, 

And from the birthday to the dying 
The likeness of our life is thus.’* 

Swinburne. 

During her absence, Olga had written frequently to Mrs. For- 
syth — not so voluminously nor so gushingly as the heroine of 

Sir Charles Grandison”to her dearest Lucy,” but she had 
found time to keep her friend au courant of her proceedings. 
Strange to say, she, who had never had a secret, scarce a 
thought, from Mrs. Forsyth before, had only written of Captain 
Beauregard in the most casual manner. She was resolved to 
keep her secret, ignorant of the extreme hardship of the task she 
was setting herself. Olga, with her impetuous nature, her keen 
want of sympathy, could not play her part long; her heart was 
yearning to talk of the dear one, to pronounce his name and to 
hear it from other lips. 

It is dull work writing the darling name a thousand times to 
tear into fragments next moment; whispering it to the birds, the 
flowers, the rushes, gives scant comfort; day-dreams, when no 
longer fed by reality, grow tame and flat; memory without cer- 
tainty of the future waxes easily from joy to pain. On the third 
day after her return, Olga, sitting on the grass at her friend’s 
feet, with the July sun filtering through the trees upon her 
fcrdent, upturned face, made her confession with a beating heart 


M 


MIGNOK 


and little trembling fingers that plucked nervously at her gown, 
but eyes radiant, luminous, great with love and hope. 

How could she guess that the woman to whom she was mak- 
ing her tender confidences was pitying, not congratulating her, 
in her heart, though her face smiled sympathy ? Mrs. Forsyth 
thought all men selfish, false, cruel. Her own experience had 
been unfortunate. The one she had given all her young heart 
to, abandoned her for a rich bride; the one she married, and 
who professed boundless love for her, ill-treated her from a month 
after their marriage until his death three years later. So she dis- 
believed utterly in men, and would fain, for Olga’s sake, have 
brought her up in her own faith or want of it, but refrained. 
“ It is no use,” she told herself; “ she is a woman; she must suf- 
fer. Some day, when she has lost her first illusions, I will give 
her the weapons she wants; they would be no use without the 
experience.” 

Olga, V7ith radiant eyes and a flush of tender color in her face, 
is telling her story. With fond hands Mrs. Forsyth caresses 
the shapely head, with smiling eyes she looks into the bright, 
triumphant ones upturned to hers, with willing, un tired ears 
she listens to the praises that glorify the girl’s idol. Surely no 
man was ever so noble, so altogether worthy a woman’s love, 
before! Mrs. Forsyth listens with a face that expresses only 
sympathy, but in her heart there lurks a grave mistrust. She 
sees in Captain Beauregard, even from the girl’s innocent, en- 
thusiastic description, not the true knight, the Laun elot of 
Olga’s dreams— only a man sated, world- worn, in search of a 
fresh emotion and regardless at what cost to this poor child he 
gratifies iC But it is too late to warn her now ; let her taste the 
only bliss she is likely ever to extract from it, the delight of 
dreaming and talking of her love. 

And so Olga enjoyed a short sweet trance of bliss. But, as 
the days crept on, nor talking nor dreaming could satisfy the 
hunger of her heart; she had a wild longing to see him again, to 
hear the caressing tones of his voice, to meet the gaze of his 
love-speaking eyes. She wondered painfully if he had not the 
same desire, if his life too did not lack something away from 
her; not as hers did— no! young as she was. she felt love could 
not be the all-absorbing thing to a man it is to a woman; but 
still, if he loved her as she believed he did, he would feel a 
yearning for the sight of her, and then he would come to her. 
She remembered how it had pained her at the time that he had 
not said anything definite about seeing her again; he had asked 
if she were going to Scotland, and expressed himself disap- 
pointed when she answered in the negative. She began to grow 
pale and hollow-eyed, to have passionate fits of crying, to lie 
awake at night, to be filled with a wild desire to see him, even 
to go to him, 

Mrs. Forsyth saw it all, longed to help her, but knew not how. 
Six weeks had passed away since her return; August was wan- 
ing. One day Mrs. Forsyth, reading the county paper, came 
upon the following paragraph; 


MIQNON, 


65 


Esclandre in high life. Considerable excitement has been cre- 
ated in the highest circles by the elopement of Lady C. N d with 

Captain the Honorable O — r B — r — d. It appears both were 

on a visit at S Castle, where a large party had assembled for 

grouse-shooting. Some words passed between Lady C. and her 
husband with regard to Captain B.’s attentions, and the next 
day both the lady and her lover were missing. It is believed 
that their destination is the Continent. There are various lumors 
afloat concerning the action decided upon by the injured hus- 
band; some assert that lie started immediately in pursuit of the 
fugitives, bent on chastising the seducer, others say that he will 
await his revenge at the hands of Sir Creswell Creswell.’- 

Mrs. Forsyth put down the paper and reflected. She was not 
surprised, hardly sorry, but she could not bear the thought of 
Olga’s suffering. How with her impetuous passionate nature, 
she suffer! what an awful wrench it must be to tear allthb 

love and faith and trust out of such a heart as hei's! 

A long time elapses. Olga comes in. Mrs. Stratheden and 
her cousin are out driving. 

“ Jfa c/ierc,” says the girl (she always calls her thus), how 
melancholy you look! What is the matter?” 

‘*Come here, darling.” And Olga sits down at her friend’s 
feet.” 

Mrs. Forsyth lays her hand caressingly on the shining hair, 
and looks at her with troubled eyes. 

“ Olga, do you know why women were sent into the world ?” 

To love and be loved,” Olga answers, with smiling eyes. The 
second post has just brought her a letter from Lady Wyvenhoe, 
in which she mentions having heard from Captain Beauregard, 
who had asked after her niece and hoped she had not quite for- 
gotten him. 

“No,” Mrs. Forsyth answers. “To love and to be repaid by 
cruelty, by treachery, by falsehood; to be made a tool of, a vehi- 
cle for men’s amusement, and then to be dropped for a newer 
toy.” 

“ Ma chere'' cries Olga, lifting eyes that have both pain and 
wonder in them, to her friend’s face, “ what do you mean ?’* 

“ My poor little darling!” whispers Mrs. Forsyth, and she puts 
both her arms round the girl, as if she could shelter her by her 
embrace from the woes of the soul as she might from the dan- 
gers of the body. 

A look of terror comes into Olga’s face and blanches it, she 
looks as though she had seen some ghastly sight. Her heart 
beats so loud she can hear it. 

“ Tell me, oh, tell me quick!” she gasps. 

Mrs. Forsyth gives her the paper and shuts her eyes; she does 
not want to witness the slaying of trust and faith in the child’s 
heart. 

Olga reads, re-reads, and reads again. A dull, dazed feeling 
has come across her after the first shock. 

Ma cherCf she says, in a low, quiet voice, leaning her cheek on 


/ 


/ 


66 


MIGNON. 


her hand and looking up with unfaltering eyes, “ why did you 
not tell me before ?” 

Tell you what, my darling ?” 

All the while that I have been talking such nonsense to you 
about him, why did you not tell me that he was laughing at me 
and amusing himself? I wonder” (breaking off) “ if she is very 
lovely. How she must have loved him to give up everything 
for him!” And then she rises and goes toward the door, taking 
the paper with her. 

“ Where are you going, darling?” 

“ I am going to my own room. Don t come to me yet, I want 
to think.” Then, with a wan smile as she sees her friend’s 
grieved face. You see I take it very well, do I not? I shall 
soon get over it.” 

And she goes— goes and hides herself in her chamber, and 
cries out her passionate farewell to love and hope, and wonders, 
as the young do, how the sun can shine, and the birds sing, and 
life go on just the same as if her heart were not broken. 

And Mrs, Forsyth, knowing what is best for her, leaves her to 
fight out her long agony, and makes excuse for her absence, and 
then at sundown goes to her. 

“ It is I, dearest, let me in!” And Olga unbars the door. Her 
eyes are dim and heavy with long weeping; her hands are 
nerveless, she is all unstrung. 

Mrs. Forsyth unbinds her hair, bathes her aching head, makes 
her eat and drink, puts her to bed, and stays with her until, 
worn out, she falls asleep. All night through Olga sleeps the 
sound sleep of youth. 

Who has not known the awful misery of waking to the mem- 
ory of some great grief — the first dim consciousness of some- 
thing wrong, the gradual dawning remembrance,” until the 
hideous shai^e stands revealed in all its horror. 

The days go by somehow. Autumn comes, and changes the 
green of summer to gold and bronze, to crimson and russet. It 
gladdens the hearts of the sportsmen, and rings the death- knell 
of hundreds of thousands of little plump soft-breasted birds 
which in dying, it is to be supposed, fulfill the purpose of their 
being. Autumn, with its fair hot noons and early twilights, its 
picturesque, harmonious-colored decay, its gaudy scentless flow- 
ers, its ruddy golden sunsets, thick dews, and chilly nights. 
Winter follows, 

“ The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill,” 

or more probably in the vale; the scarlet coats come out, and 
the glossy hunters, like giants refreshed after their long summer 
of idleness, are keen and full of life; the hounds are thirsting 
for Reynard’s blood. Let him garner up his store of cunning; 
he will want it, poor beast! Sport, always sport! something 
must be torn and maimed, must suffer and die, to appease the 
lust of blood in man’s heart. It is the old savage instinct of the 
race, that finds comparatively harmless vent in the slaughter of 
small defenseless things nowadays. But it is a glorious thing to 


MIGNOK 67 

be a sportsman!— it is for women to be tender-hearted; would to 
Heaven they all were! 

Winter! leaves falling or fallen everywhere; the coverts are 
clearing of their tangle of wild flowers and ferns and grasses; it 
is all one brown, sodden, undistinguishable mass now, and will 
no longer hide the gorgeous pheasants or the frightened little 
rabbits. The frost has stripped the leaves from the red berries 
in the hedges; the sun is so far off he can scarce be felt; the 
warmth is within now, and the women read or work and wax 
confidential over the crackling log; it is getting too cold to go 
out with the shooters’ lunch, and there is more hunting than 
shooting now. They drive to the meet, sometimes, but it is not 
very satisfactory: men are thinking a good deal more of the 
day’s business than of daintily bewrapped and befurred fair 
ones, and are devoutly wishing those who have elected to go en 
Amazone and hint at following, out of the way. 

George Stratheden is a mighty hunter, and, unlike most men, 
is always wanting the object of his affections to do likewise. 
Olga is a fearless and most graceful rider, but she never goes 
liunting — thinks it unfeminine. She generally rides to the meet 
and returns with her groom as soon as they find. 

Poor George is more deeph^ in love than ever, and, now that 
in her wrath against his sex she has dropped the old cousinly af- 
fectionate manner toward him, and treats him with something of 
scorn and impatience, his love takes new fire from her disdain. 
She is callous to his sufferings; she has adopted Mrs. Forsyth’s 
theory. When a man wants a woman, she is his tyrant; when 
he has her, she is his slave. It is better to be tyrant than slave. 
Mrs. Forsyth no longer refrains from indoctrinating Olga with 
her own opinions, and Olga is hardening her heart against men 
as though they were the natural enemies of her sex. 

So poor George woos and prays and pleads in vain; Olga tells 
him frankly she will never be his wife, never. He vows she 
shall, and in the end he has his way. This is how it comes to 
pass. One day he goes out hunting, strong and fair and stalwart, 
and four hours later he is brought home with a broken back, 
and three, four days’, or it may be at most a week’s, life left in 
him. One half of him is alive; he is perfectly sensible, can 
speak and move his hands, his head, his arms; the other half is 
dead as marble, as clay. He insists on knowing the truth; so 
they tell him. He bears it bravely. A slight quiver of the lips, 
a momentary dimness of his blue eyes, are the only signs he 
gives of weakness. And yet to be cut off in the hey-day of his 
youth and strength, with all that makes life worth having, before 
him, to go out alone into the dark cruel night of death and leave 
behind those things that seem even fairer and dearer now he 
must say good-bye to them forever! He only expresses two 
wishes. He would be buried in his red coat, and he would have 
Olga marry him. 

“ Mother!” he says in the night, as she is sitting heart-broken 
by his bedside, I could die happy if Olga would be my wife. 
It is not only a whim, dear. You know Uncle Charles is not 
rery well off; we have no near relation we care for, and your tastes 


MIGNON. 


68 

are very simple; you have this house for your life, and more In- 
come than you spend. I should like to leave all I have that 
you do not want or care for to Olga; and if she were my wife it 
would not seem strange, but would be hers of right.” 

What could he have asked his mother, living, that she would 
not have granted ? dying — how much more! 

Colonel Sefton, who had been telegraphed for, gives his con- 
sent. Olga is not told a word about the money; they guess 
rightly that such knowledge w^ould be the greatest barrier to her 
granting his wish. She is broken-hearted; now that it is too late, 
she, like the rest of us, would sacrifice anything, everything, to 
save him. 

And so the special license is procured, and the bishop bidden, 
and the poor d3dng lad jojdully takes his grief-stricken bride 
for the short time that remains until death them do part. Surely 
no sadder wedding was ever celebrated on God’s earth than 
this one!— the poor mother weeping piteously in Mrs. Forsyth’s 
arms, who herself is quivering with sobs and using the strong- 
est effort of her will to be calm; Olga with rivers of tears rain- 
ing from her eyes, and her hands pressed convulsively against 
her breast, to check its agonized heaving; Colonel Sefton biting 
his lips hard as he holds his daughter with one hand and brushes 
away the tears that will rise with the other: even the bishop 
with dim eyes and ti'emulous voice and a strange, unwonted 
thickness in the voice that is celebrated for its clearness. 

“ Little wife! darling wife!” the word is scarcely ever off the 
poor lad’s dying lips: its utterance seems to give him infinite 
pleasure. He will have her sign her new name, Olga Stratheden, 
and show to him; he bids those about him address her as Mrs. 
Stratheden, and has even heart to make a little joke and tell 
his mother she is the dowager now; and the poor mother smiles, 
the wannest, sorrowfulest smile that ever hovered on a woman’s 
lips. The last words he utters are, “ Good-night, little darling 
wife.” 

They say people don’t die of broken hearts. Mrs. Stratheden 
died four months after her son. The doctors could not tell what 
she died of: she ought to have lived to a hundred, they said. 
With the exception of a few legacies, she also left everything to 
her niece. Olga, a young girl of nineteen, was a rich widow 
about whom every one was talking. But she loathed her riches, 
and was inconsolable for her aunt and cousin, nay, her husband 
— strange thought! At last Colonel Sefton insisted on taking 
her abroad for change of scene, Mrs. Forsyth of course accom- 
panying them. Every w’here the young girl, traveling in widow’s 
weeds, excited curiosity and attention. This was odious to Olga: 
it seemed a mockery, besides; but custom exacted it. 

They traveled for a year, by the end of which time Olga had 
recovered her health and spirits, and had begun to find it pleas- 
ant to be rich and considered. She went into society. Her god- 
mother’s daughter, married to a Russian prince of distinction, 
took her by the hhnd, and she became the fashion in Paris. 
There she acquired the art of dress, perfection in the language, 
and the additional charm of manner which no people possess to 


MIGNOK 


m 

a greater degree than high-bred Frenchwomen. Wherever she 
went, she excited interest and curiosity; her really strange story 
was made ten times stranger by repetition; she was reported to 
be fabulously rich. She had princes, statesmen, soldiers at her 
feet — men who loved her for what she had— men who loved her 
for what she was. Be it confessed, she treated them with some 
cruelty; she refused to believe men could suffer from love; if 
they did, tant mieux — she was probably avenging some other 
woman. 

Captain Beauregard, comings to Paris, having left Lady C. 
N to a dull repentance or a shameful notoriety in some dis- 

reputable continental town, heard of Olga’s fame. It was not 
long before they met. Mrs. Stratheden had always been prepar- 
ing for this contingency, and was able to meet the man who had 
spoiled her life as a mere casual acquaintance. They met often. 
Captain Beauregard, piqued by her indifference, which was ap- 
parently smcere, used every art he was master of to win back 
her regard. He was falling desperately in love with her — he 
who had never allowed a woman to be anything more to him 
than a momentary passion, a passing caprice. He began to 
suffer what she had suffered, what many a woman had suffered 
for his sake. 

Olga never gave him any chance of seeing her in private; in- 
deed, she never received any man unless her father or Mrs. For- 
syth was present. One afternoon, however, she was alone; the 
servants believed Colonel Sefton to be with her, but he had gone 
out without their preceiving it. At last the opportunity comes 
that Captain Beauregard has so ardently desired; he has come 
to call, and is ushered into the room where Olga is alone. If 
she is not beautiful, nothing can be more gracious or elegant 
than Mrs. Stratheden; she has something more fascinating than 
mere beauty; she is only a girl, and yet no woman breathing 
could have more tact, more self-possession, combined with the 
most perfect womanliness. Captain Beauregard, who has never 
in his life dreamed of asking a woman to marry him, feels capable 
of the stupendous sacrifioe as he looks at her. He comes up to her, 
takes her hands, looks at her with eyes that have all their old 
fascination and rnore since his soul shines through them, and 
says: 

“ Olga, have you forgotten?” 

She meets his look with a steadfast gaze. His voice and eyes 
have still something of their old power over her, but she has not 
acted over this scene a thousand times to herself for nothing. 

There is the least quiver of her lip, the least tremor in her 
voice, as she answers: 

“No, I have forgotten nothing.'^ 

“ You have heard evil reports of me,” he says, hurriedly. 
“Nay, I do not want to defend myself; you can have heard 
nothing so bad of me as what I feel myself deserving of at this 
moment; but give me a chance; let me try to be something bet- 
ter in the future for your sake!” 

Oliver Beauregard has never in his life until to-day humbled 
himself before a woman — has never even felt conscious of the 


70 


MIGNOK 


superiority of one; he has always been the sportsman, they the 
game to be snared or trapped or carried off by a strong arui. 
Now he feels himself genuinely the inferior of this slight girl. 

“ Listen to me,” utters Olga, the tears standing in her proud 
eyes. “ I have thought sometimes that such a thing as this 
might happen one day, and I always meant to say this to you, 
not in any set words” (putting her hand to her head), “ I have 
forgotten the words, but the sense is this. It seems a light thing 
to you to destroy women’s reputations, women’s souls; perhaps” 
(with a shade of scorn) “ you do not believe they have any. 
Women are fair game for you. Well, perhaps some of them 
are; I have seen something of the world lately, and know more 
of its ways than when I met you first. But is it a light thing, do 
you think ” (passionately), “ to take a girl’s heart, a heart quite 
pure and fresh and full of innocent faith, a heart that believes 
in the man who makes her love him as she believes in Heaven, 
to take it just for sport’s sake, and then to fling it away to break 
or to wither? You have spoiled my life; you have turned my 
faith into doubt; you have made me read falsehood on the lips 
that perhaps came to me with truth on them; you have turned 
the sweet of al‘l my young life to bitter, and made me incapable 
of tasting the greatest happiness a woman can know.” 

“Forgive me!” he cries, remorsefully. “Let me atone to 
you.” 

He tries to take her hand; but she tears it from him and walks 
away to the end of the room. When she comes back she is 
smiling. 

“ I have finished my say,” she says, quietly. “ Let us talk of 
something else.” 

“Olga” (passionately), do not trifle with me. My whole 
life, I swear, shall be devoted to you. Give me this little 
hand ” 

Olga smiles as she puts it in his. 

“Take it in friendship,” she says. “Sooner than gjve it as 
you ask it, I would hold it in the fire and let it burn like Cran- 
mer’s.” 

“ Are you so unforgiving?” he says, bitterly. 

“No,” she answers, looking at him with steadfast eyes. “ I 
have forgiven you long ago. Will you do something for my 
sake ?” 

“ I wiU.” 

“ You have done much evil in your day,” she says, still with 
her brown eyes fixed on his: “ you will do much more before 
you die. One day think of me, and spare some weak woman’s 
soul for my sake ?” 

Then she turns away and leaves him. In the solitude of her 
own chamber Olga is crying her heart out. Poor child! she 
loves him still. 

Captain Beauregard does not despair. But a week later, 
Colonel Sefton has a paralytic seizm'e, of which he dies in a few 
months. It is long ere the world sees Olga again. 

So much for retrospect. Now we come back to the Olga of 
to-day, “ swaying like a pond lily in the golden afternoon.” 


MTGNOK 


71 


CHAPTER XII. 

** Great roses stained still where the first rose bled, 

Burning at heart for shame their heart withholds; 

And the sad color of strong marigolds, 

That have the sun to kiss their lips for love; 

The fiower that Venus’ hair is woven of.” 

St. Dorothy. 

The Olga of to-day is lying in her hammock, with eyes raised 
heavenward, though they cannot see heaven through the green 
labyrinths of leaves that hide sky and sun, all but a little trick- 
ling thread here and there. But in a hammock it is easier to 
look upward than downward. Now and then, for a change, she 
glances across the water to the flower rows, where the old- 
fashioned single roses flourish on their sturdy bushes, crimson, 
and pink, pale with ruddy stripes, all-yellow-eyed, gold-colored 
ones, too, and orange, tiny white ones, and great soft moss 
roses. 

Beneath them grow great patches of sky-colored nemophila 
and mignonette; and there are pansies and campanula, esch- 
scholtzia. sweet-williams. Canter bury -bells, lavender, southern- 
wood, and sweetbrier; for these are not the show gardens, 
planted in stiff patterns of vivid color, but the old flower-borders 
by the waterside that Olga loves for “ auld acquaintance sake.” 
She can see the cups of the white lilies riding on their broad 
leaves when she looks down, and shining little fish leaping 
against the sun, and the stately swans sailing down in a royal 
progress from end to end of the lake; but she looks oftener up- 
ward. Her hands are folded on a bookt it is a volume of Alfred 
de Musset’s; she has been reading, not for the first time, that 
morbidly horrible conception of his that is clothed in such ex- 
quisitely pathetic language. Who would think the charming 
adored Mrs. Stratheden, who has everything heart can desire (so 
the world says), is also given to indulging in morbid fancies ? 
Ay, the world, the busybody, stupid, short-sighted world, that 
is so glib to judge, to say what should be, and measures the 
I length and breadth and depth of a heart with its cramped inch- 
measure of custom and probability. 

Olga suffers from the feeling of a vie manquee. She asks her- 
self constantly what good she is in the world. Others could an- 
swer that question well enough — could point to her poor, her 
model cottages, her charities, her universal sympathy for every 
living being who needs it. Olga’s great stumbling-block is the 
gigantic misery of the whole creation, its sufferings, its sickness, 
its heartbreakings — worst and chiefest of all, the agony in its 
animal life. She carries her sympathy for the dumb part of 
creation to excess; at least her friends laugh and say so. “ Most 
people who have hobbies,” she answers, smiling, ‘‘ are apt to over- 
ride them a little. When I die, put over my grave, ‘ The ani- 
mal’s friend,’ the epitaph I should be.proudest of.” Mrs. Strathe- 
den never calls forth the animadversions of the other sex by 
joining them on shooting expeditions; she would not see bird or 


73 


MIGNON, 


beast shot for all the world (she can even resist the fascinations 
of Hurlingham), she is not to be converted to the delights of sal- 
mon-fishing; she has earned the contempt of fair ones with mas- 
culine tastes by utterly refusing to assist at the performance of 
some favorite terrier in a barn full of rats — contempt recipro- 
cated fortyfold. If there is one thing in the world that causes 
Olga to forget her gracious tact, it is cruelty in a woman. “You 
men,” she says, with a Jin sourire, “ have naturally brutal in- 
stincts; I suppose the world would not go on. and ive should not 
care for you, without; but a cruel woman is nature’s most horrid 
deformity.” 

“ But you,” replies her interlocutor, are yourself very cruel 
—to men.” 

“ I would rather be the executioner than the victim,” she 
laughs. “With you, one must be one or the other.” 

Olga believes this firmly. The desire of her life is to love and 
to be loved, but slie has a mcrbid idea that love cannot be 
reciprocal. More than once she has been on the point of suc- 
cumbing to her lover’s entreaties, and has done violence to her- 
self to resist them. 

“ If I married him and grew to love him intensely, as I should 
do,” she tells herself, “I should lose my power over him; and 
then I should kill myself.” 

Besides this, Madame Olga is tant soit pen autocrate : she has 
held the reins so long, she is not quite sure whether she could 
yield them gracefully to any one else now. 

“ Better, perhaps, as it is,” she decides, with a sigh that comes 
from the bottom of her heart; and IVIrs. Forsyth fosters this 
view of the case. She is not more selfish than most people, but 
very few would care to give up such a position as hers. She 
has as much benefit and enjoyment out of Olga’s possessions as 
Olga herself; more, since she has no responsibility. She has 
immense influence over her former pupil, and possesses her sin- 
cere and hearty affection; but once let there come a master at 
the Manor House, and then, instead of honored friend and con- 
fidant, she must sink into an unwelcome third. To retire, 
upon however handsome a pension, would be to lead a life ut- 
terly tame and dull after her pleasant, luxurious one with Mrs. 
Stratheden. Mrs. Forsyth would .never have been ^ilty of un- 
fair means to compass an end, but she is not superior to taking 
advantage of Olga’s doubts and fears to retain a position as per- 
fect as one that depends upon another person can possibly be, 

Mrs. Forsyth has come at last to a feeling of pleasant security: 
she has had her anxieties, but now that Olga has come scathless 
out of so many temptations to marriage, has refused devotion, 
rank, good looks, there is not much left to fear. 

And yet, if ever a heart ached for want of love and sympathy, 
it was Olga’s; if there breathed a woman (despite her proud ex- 
terior) more softly, femininely dependent upon the sterner sex 
than another, it was Olga; and her heart-hunger, instead of 
deadening and dying out with time, grew stronger, keener, 
harder to stifle, as the years rolled by. But of this lier friend 
knew and guessed nothing. Her experience of men had been 


MIGNON. 


XZ 

bitter; she had leaned upon them, and they as reeds had pierced 
her hand; she never wanted to lean on or trust them again, to 
hang upon their smiles, to tremble at their frowns. 

Olga, having indulged her “sweet and bitter fancies” in the 
“ golden afternoon,” and feeling her senses rested by the liar- 
mony of sight, sound and coloring about her. begins to reflect 
that time is drawing on, and that her horse will soon be at the 
door. She always rides or drives when the day grows cool. So 
she rises to a sitting posture, and puts out 6ne dainty foot from 
her hammock, but gets no further at present, being beguiled by 
tlie scene on which her eyes rest. 

“ How wonderful Nature is! ’’she thinks, di'eamily, “ Now, if 
half a dozen people began to sing different tunes at the same 
time, what a horrid discord it w’ould make; but a thousand 
birds may sing at once, each with a different note, and it is 
delicious harmony. If you put red ye) low, green, and blue to- 
gether in art, the combination is hideous; and yet, what can be 
more charming than that patch of nemophila and eschscholtzia 
growing under those clusters of red roses on their green bushes ? 
What texture did art ever invent comparable to the tissue of the 
humblest flower? Ah! Nature!” (signing), the only thing you 
ever failed in is mankind; when you bestowed life and breath, 
and speech, and sight, you gave up your own responsibility.” 

After this apostroplie to the universal mother, the other little 
foot comes out of the hammock, and Olga strolls off toward the 
house. The stable clock strikes five; she has ordered her horse 
for a quarter past, so she quickens her steps. Mrs. Stratheden is 
one of the few punctual women on record. Strange to say, she 
does not avail herself of her unbounded liberty to keep her 
horses and servants waiting by the hour^nor does she drive her 
cook to despair by coming down to dinner when everything has 
been ready an unspecified time, neither does she exercise that 
truly feminine pre7'ogative of making the man who adores her 
wait when he comes to see or to escort her to some place of enter- 
tainment; this pet weakness of her sex is not to be scored against 
Olga. 

She has retired to the sacred precincts of her chamber to don 
her habit, and whilst Mrs. Medley, the high -priestess of that 
temple, is engaged upon her mysterious rites, we can stroll 
round and come into the house by the front door, as strangers 
should do. 

When you entered the hall at the Manor House, you felt a 
strange desire to linger there. It did not seem as though any 
drawing-room, morning-room, or boudoir could be half so at- 
tractive or offer nearly so much to charm the eye. In winter it 
is the picture of comfort; in summer, deliciously cool and free 
from glare. One may fancy how the Yule logs crackle and 
blaze in that vast chimney framed in carved oak, transformed 
now into a nest of ferns and flowers. In winter, the floor, 
polished like a mirror, is carpeted with rare skins; now its per- 
fection is laid bare, except where a strip of India matting saves 
the unwary from falling headlong. It is lighted by a window 
big enough for a church; and, truth to tell, a considerable por- 


74 


MIONON. 


tion of it stood for centuries in an Italian chapel, casting on the 
kneeling worshipers rays of a southern sun transmuted into 
such gorgeous hues as the hand of the craftsman can no longer 
create to-day. This window is draped by immense curtains of 
deep-blue velvet. The ceiling ascends to the roof. A flight of 
broad stairs leads up to the window, then diverges into two 
flights that land you in the grand old oaken galleries which run 
round the hall. 

Everywhere in the hall and staircase where there is a niche or 
vacant spot stand cabinets, carvings, impaneled pictures, stands 
of rare china, curious clocks, brackets — a perfect museum of 
curiosities. Every object is beautiful in some way, artistic in 
form or dainty in coloring or workmanship. Olga has rare 
taste. Nothing recommends itself to her simply because it is 
old, uncommon, or grotesque, unless it possesses intrinsic beauty 
as well. She will have no shams, no imitations, if she knows it. 
Well, she is a rich woman, and can afford to gratify her ex- 
pensive tastes; but I am very much tempted to think that 
the feminine love of ornament is so strong in her that if she 
had been a poor seamstress instead of a grande dame she 
would have decorated her room with a few poor flowers in a 
cheap vase and any little knickknacks the savings of her toil 
permitted. Our taste very often hangs upon our power to 
gratify it. 

I said that on entering the hall a stranger felt inclined to 
linger; but such was the case in every room where you were 
ushered: each was as perfect in taste as harmoniously pleasing 
to the eye and stimulating to the sense of curiosity. There is 
one room, hall, nay, I know not what to call it, at the Manor 
House, perfectly unique as far as I know, never having seen or 
heard of anything similar elsewhere. Olga had it built after 
her own design, and calls it her “Folly.” It opens from the 
entrance-hall by a small door concealed by a curtain; it is not a 
conservatory; it is not entirely composed of glass; it is oc- 
tagonal in shape, has a glass dome, and a great French window 
in every octagon, to which on the outside there are Venetian 
shutters. 

In the center a fountain plays into a marble basin- -not a little 
tinkling, irritating, scented toy, but a fountain that throws up a 
certain volume of water and comes down with a musical splash- 
ing sound. Round it are low chairs and couches, some of cane, 
some brocaded and luxurious, and the marble floor is laid here 
and there with Eastern rugs or matting. There are orange-trees 
and myrtles and rose-trees in great majolica vases; ferns and 
mosses hang from the roof in baskets and nestle against the 
marble basin of the fountain; rare creepers hide the trellised 
walls; there are a few flowers — only a few, for the predominant 
color is the cool velvety green of leaves and mosses; and here 
and there are five of the statues of the world — the Venus of 
Medici, of Milo, of Canova, the Apollo Belvedere, and the Per- 
seus of the Vatican. Somewhere hidden behind a screen of 
leaves, is one of those exquisite self -playing organs. It is not a 
resort fit alone for hot summer days, though it is most like para- 


MIGNON, 75 

dise then, but can be heated to any temperature by invisible hot- 
water pipes. 

‘‘ The Folly has been the one extravagance of my life,” Olga 
says, laughing, “ and I have never repented it. Nothing soothes 
me like the sight and sound of water. When I go away, there 
is nothing I miss so much as my fountain.” 

I will spare the reader any more upholstery ” for the pres- 
ent, and emerge again from the hall-door, where Mrs. Strathe- 
den has sprung this moment to the back of her liandsome chest- 
nut. She has a mania for that color, and rarely rides or drives 
any other. Mrs. Forsyth has come out on tlie steps as usual to 
see her off. Olga throws her a smile, as she rides away, with the 
head groom, in a triumph of art, behind hei% There is never 
any slackness about Jenkins. If he rode behind his mistress 
every day in the country for ten years without meeting a soul, 
his own attire, his bits and bridles, would be as faultless, as un- 
impeachable, on the last day, as though they were got up for the 
Row. Certainly the saddle is the place to see Mrs. Stratheden, 
I am not sure the position does not rival even that of the French 
marquise. Given a woman with a perfect seat, perfectly 
mounted, a graceful figure, a small head coiled round with 
glossy hair, a face piquant and full of expression if not abso 
lutely beautiful, and the result must needs be striking. 

Olga rides down the avenue on this quiet afternoon all un- 
prescient how much of fate hangs upon the decision as to 
whether she shall turn to right or left when she emerges from 
the park gates. Fate decrees that she shall take the road across 
the common to Allington. She is riding down a green glade 
now. Her canter has brought the color to her cheeks, an addi- 
tional brightness to her eyes. She feels the delicious exhilara- 
tion that nothing but riding or dancing can give. At this mo- 
ment she is conscious of the want of sympathy in her pleasure. 
It is not far off > In the distance she descries two horsemen com- 
ing toward her, and feels a certain curiosity as to who they may 
be. 

“ It cannot be Raymond,” she thinks; he never comes home 
so early as this.” 

Two minutes solve all doubts. It is Raymond L’Estrange and 
another young fellow about the same age, unknown to Mrs. 
Stratheden. 

Two manly, good-looking, well-mounted young Englishmen of 
a certain class present as comely a sight to the eye on a summer 
evening as it can well desire, especially to a woman’s eye. So 
thinks Olga, who has a genuine weakness for good looks. Not 
that Mr. L’Estrange’s companion can bear comparison with him 
as far as positive beauty goes. Raymond’s every feature is per- 
fect; but the other has that general fresh Saxon comeliness that 
a dark-haired woman like Olga is sure to esteem highly. 

I’m awful glad to see you,” cries Raymond, shaking her by 
the hand as he rides up; and his looks do not belie his words. 

Let me introduce an old friend to you, Mr. Vyner — Leo, Mrs. 
Stratheden.” Olga does not content herself with a bow, but 
gives the stranger her hand with the frank grace that so well 


MIQNOR 


W 

becomes her; and then the two young men turn their horses' 
heads and ride one on either side of her. 

“ How is it you have left town so early this year?" Olga asks of 
Raymond. 

I don’t know. I got bored with the heat and the noise and 
the constant whirl, and longed for the country, and Leo, who 
hates London, promised to come with me; but now that we are 
here and there is nothing to do— no shooting, no fishing — we are 
at our wits’ end to kill time, and have some idea of going to 
Brittany, or Jersey, or Ems, or somewhere, for a change. I 
didn’t dare disturb your solitude, though I have been longing to, 
and there’s nobody else back yet but the Foxes, and ifs no fun 
going there now Kitty’s engaged.” 

“ Then it is really settled!” 

'' Settled! oh, yes, irrevocably. Fancy that mercenary little 
wretch taking a dull pompous ass like Clover just for the sake 
of being ‘ my lady ’ —a baronet whose father was a mechanic,” 
adds Raymond, with the conscious disdain of a man able to 
count several generations of ancestors who never soiled their 
hands with despicable toil nor were of the least benefit to their 
kind. 

“ Poor little Kitty! I hope she will be happy,” remarks ]\Irs. 
Stratheden, thoughtfully. 

“ Oh, she’ll be Iiappy enough as long as she can get his money 
to spend. She hasn’t an atom of heart,” says Raymond, who 
has a slight grudge against Kitty for the flippant way in which 
she has treated his attentions. Not that he had ever thought 
seriously of marrying her, but little Kitty was pretty, and it was 
pleasant to spoon her when there was nothing else to do, as at 
the present moment. He felt considerably nettled at her prefer- 
ring Sir Josias Clover’s definite intentions to his indefinite ones. 

“ Now, Mrs. Stratheden,” he says, changing the subject, ** you 
must let us come over and spend the day to-morrow. We won’t 
bore you very much. If you want to get rid of us in the after* 
noon, you can shut us up in the Folly and let us do a little 
‘weeding.’” 

Olga laughs. 

“ My dear boy, you are most welcome to come; but how do 
you suppose two old women can undertake to aiuuse young 
men ?” 

Mr. Vyner turns and looks at her, thinking it a little bit of un- 
called-for affectation to style herself an old woman; he takes her 
to be about two or three-and-twenty. 

“Leo likes old women,” answers Raymond, mischievously; 
“ at least I conclude so, for 1 never saw him devote himself to a 
young one.” 

“Perhaps he does not care for either,” says Olga, turning to 
him with a smile. “ I have heard of such cases.” 

Leo colors a little. 

“ I have never been thrown very much with ladies,” he says; 
“my mother is dead, and I have no sisters.” 

“ He thinks of nothing but spoxt,” interrupts Raymond — 


MIGNOK 


77 


sport and athletic exercises, and fills up the crevices with 
smoking and reading.” 

“ I am afraid 3"ou will find it too stupid at the Manor House,” 
says Olga, addressing herself to Leo. “ As for this boy, I have 
known him ever since he was in petticoats, and he comes over 
when he feels inclined, makes himself perfectly at home, and 
never wants any entertaining.” 

Leo, as he says, is not much accustomed to ladies. He does 
not exactly know what sort of answer is expected from him, so 
contents himself with saying that if it will not inconvenience 
Mrs Stratheden, it will give him much pleasure to accompany 
Raymond on the morrow. 

When they have wished Olga good-bye, Raymond turns to his 
friend. 

Mind you don't fall in love with her,'’ he says. 

Leo laughs. 

Not much fear. I think I am not very susceptible. Is she 
so dangerous ?” 

*' Ah,” says Raymond, “ more fellows have come to grief 
over Olga Stratheden than over any other woman I ever knew.” 

“ Really?” utters Leo, indifferently. 

“ I know I nearly broke my heart about her once,” says Ray- 
mond. “ But that’s an old stor^^; and we’re the best friends in 
the world now.” 

“ Why, my dear fellow, you must have been in your teens,” 
laughs Leo. “ What is she? — a widow?” 

Raymond proceeds to tell his friend the story that so many 
people have found strange and interesting. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

** The sound of the strong summer thickening 
In heated leaves of the smooth apple-trees: 

The day’s breath felt about the ash branches. 

And noises of the noon, whose weight still grew 
On tlie hot, heavy-headed flowers, and drew 
Their red mouths open till the rose-heart ached.” 

Swbilnirne, 

** What are we to do with those boys?” asks Olga of her friend 
the next morning at breakfast. 

“What a question for the most accomplished hostess in the 
world!” returns Mrs. Forsyth, with a smile. 

“ But at the present moment, ma chere, there is nothing avail- 
able but the beauties of nature — to which young men of sporting 
tendencies are not usually very sensitive. A lake or a stream 
only suggests fish to be caught; a wood, good covert; a view, the 
probability of its being a desirable hunting country; even the 
charm of a garden is the thought of cutting down the trees.” 

“ Let them smoke and play billiards.” 

“They have evidently done that until they are tired of it. 
No. I tell you what I propose. I cannot have them with me all 
the afternoon; after lunch, I shall send them into the Folly and 


78 


MIGNON, 


set the organ going, and about five we’ll ride, and after dinner 
they shall row us on the lake.” 

“ An excellent arrangement,” Mrs. Forsyth agrees. 

Two o’clock comes, and with it the expected guests. It is a 
decided relief, after the burning glare outside, to come into the 
deliciously cool dining-room, looking out on a sea of turf with a 
grand cedar in the distance. No fiowers outside, but plenty in 
the room, in crystal bowls and vases, nestling among delicate 
ferns Everything is cold, the wines are deliciously iced, the 
dishes are of the choicest, the salad is “ a dream,” and the piles 
of crimson strawberries, and the cream that only a model dairy 
can produce, delight two senses at once. Raymond and his 
friend quite forgot that half an hour ago they pronouuced the 
day unbearable, and that no limit of time under a week could 
get them cool. 

Leo Vyner is surprised. As he told Olga last night, he has not 
seen much of ladies, and is not at all au fait of their graces and 
refinements. His father’s house is conducted on the rough-and- 
ready principles of a man who has no woman-kind belonging to 
him. and to whom every other consideration is secondary to 
that of sport. Leo has been little in women’s society; it bores 
his father and the two are almost inseparable. 

“Your mother was a most excellent woman,” Mr. Vyner, 
senior, has told his son; “ she was of course, a veiy great loss, an 
irreparable loss, I may say. But women are curious creatures; 
it is not good for a man to have too much to do with them; they 
are not rational; they cannot understand that there are consid- 
erations in a man’s mind that must naturally come before them; 
they are always wanting to be first, and making scenes when 
they find they cannot. A woman who is her own mistress is 
about as dangerous as a tiger let loose in a crowd.” 

Leo has for the first time in his life the opportunity of con- 
templating this dangerous animal, a woman uncontrolled. He 
is quite ignorant on the subject of art; he knows nothing of pict- 
ures, statues, china, or such matters; he is not even a good judge 
of the appointments of an elegant house; but he is far more im- 
pressed in the few minutes since he entered the Manor House 
than he has ever been upon going into a strange house before. 
The refinement, the harmonious beauty of every object that 
meets his eye; the perfectness of every arrangement; the com- 
fort that goes even beyond the elegance. The charm of Olga’s 
manner is stealing across him; he knows little of style or dress, 
but Mrs. Stratheden’s gives him a vague idea of perfection; she 
seems to make no effort, and yet talk fiows on pleasantly, 
smoothly. Leo feels almost abashed ; until to-day he has never 
been embarrassed by the consciousness of superiority in a 
woman. Olga’s voice and smile give him a strange, unaccus- 
tomed pleasure; he wishes the exigencies of society did not for- 
bid his sitting and staring at her as a simple spectator. 

“ I am going to leave you to yourselves,” Mrs. Stratheden says, 
when the pleasantly-protracted lunch has come to an end. “You 
can find your way to the Folly, Raymond. The organ is wound 
up; you have only to set it going.” * 


MIGNOK 


79 


“ But you will come too?” persuades Raymond; ‘‘ it won’t be 
half so nice without you; and we won’t smoke if you don’t like 
it.” 

‘‘ Smoking does not frighten me away, as you ought to know,” 
she answers, smiling; “ but I have some letters to write. I will 
look in upon you presently.” 

“ Do not be long, then,” he says, going. 

When Leo finds himself alone in the Folly, he stands still and 
draws a long breath; it looks to him like fairyland. 

“ She is a wonderful w^oman,” he says to himself, for about the 
tenth time since his arrival. Raymond is too much accustomed 
to the place to be in any w^ay affected by the beauty of it, and 
proceeds at once to set the organ going. Leo is fond of music, 
although he does not in the least understand it. (Why should I 
say although ? is it necessary for the purpose of admiring a 
picture that one should know how to mix colors, or is the pleas- 
ure we feel at a beautiful statue incompatible wdth ignorance of 
the art of modeling?) With the organ, the illusion is complete. 
The cool plashing sound of falling water the velvety richness of 
the surrounding green, the tend.er scent and coloring of the 
roses, the gleaming statues of exquisite form, and the melting 
strains of the loveliest waltz that ever stirred the veins. Leo is 
strangely subdued. He has never occupied himself wdth the 
search of stimulants for his senses. Most young fellow^s who 
came into the Folly said, wdth enthusiasm, “ What an awfully 
jolly place!” but it made unsophisticated Leo dumb; he almost 
felt as if his feet profaned such a temple. 

Raymond, having set the organ going, flings himself upon a 
low couch and take out his cigar case. 

“ Raymond,” cries Leo, in a tone of horror, you are surely 
not going to smoke here 

Raymond stares at him, then laughs. 

'‘My dear fellow, this is the smoking-room par excellence of 
the house; though Mrs. Stratheden will let you smoke anywhere, 
except in the drawing-room. That’s what makes her such a 
favorite; she’s so awfully sensible, and always likes everybody 
to be happy and do what they like. Come; light up.” 

Somehow, Leo does not feel inclined to obey his friend’s be- 
hest, but, sitting beside the fountain, allows his senses to drink 
their fill of pleasure. Without being aware of it, he has an im- 
agination; but it has steadily been kept under by the constant 
bodily exercise to which he has been pccustomed almost from 
his cradle. 

"Awfully jolly, this, isn’t it?” says Raymond, puffing indo- 
lently at his cigar. 

The two words by which the rising youth are apt to desig- 
nate everything that gives them pleasure, from the most trivial 
to the most exciting, somehow jar upon Leo, though he is 
quite as much a slave to paucity of expression as other young 
men of the day. Their inadequacy and inappropriateness 
strike him unpleasantly. Jolly ! applied to this paradise of re- 
finement. 

"I suppose you don’t think much of it,” proceeds Raymond, 


80 


MIGNOK 


not taking his friend's silence for consent. Not in your 
line, eh? Now, I think it the most delightful place in the 
world!” 

So do I,” returns Leo, briefly. 

Oh, that’s all right. You’ve seemed so glum and silent ever 
since you came, I thought the women bored yon.” 

“ Not at all,” replies Leo, rather indignant with his friend, he 
does not quite know wliy. “ It’s too hot to talk. You smoke, 
and let me go to sleep.” 

“ All right,” returns Raymond. “ I feel rather drowsy myself,” 
and he shuts his eyes; “ I can’t do any more damage than burn 
a hole in my coat if I do go to sleep.” 

Leo never felt less sleepy in his life. Lying back in the lux- 
urious chaise longue, with the music of the water in his ears, the 
strains of the waltz still pouring on, the subtle scent of flow- 
ers stealing through his fresh young senses, he experiences a 
new pleasure in life. The less ethereal part of him reflects on 
the choiceness of the cuisine, the delicate flavor of tlie wines 
with which he was lately served. The whole thing seems to 
him rather like a chapter out of the “ Arabian Nights.” Many of 
his friends would have only pronounced everything “ uncom- 
monly well done;” Olga herself is far from feeling that she has 
attained perfection in her menage; but to Leo, to whom Sybarit- 
ism is a sealed book, everything is wonderful and delightful. 

“She is a sort of Circe,” he says to himself, apostrophizing 
Olga — “ a good Circe. She could not do anything wicked or 
cruel, with those eyes. She is not beautiful, but there is some 
charm about her more taking than beauty. I can fancy men 
being tremendously in love with her, as Raymond said ; though 
I don’t know that I should be one of her victims. By Jove! he’s 
off.” This as he hears a heavy, regular breathing from the other 
side of the fountain. “ I wonder if his cigar’s out?” And Leo 
raises himself on one elbow to look. “ It’s all right.” Then, 
stopping to look a moment longer. “ By Jove! what a hand- 
some fellow he is!” 

And certainly Mr. Raymond L’Estrange might have borne not 
unfavorable comparison with Apollo, Antinous, or any of the 
young gods renowned for beauty. The only defect in his face, 
if one may be permitted so contradictory a mode of expression, 
is its perfection, which detracts from its manliness. The small 
head, penciled brows, broad low forehead, Greek nose, the deli- 
cate oval of the face, and, chief beauty of all, the exquisite 
curves of his mouth, are indisputably effeminate; and were it 
not that nature has endowed him with five feet ten inches of 
height, and a taste for masculine pursuits, that fickle goddess 
might have been accused of spoiling a woman without making 
a handsome man. As he is, his claim to beauty is acknowledged 
by both sexes. Fortunately, he is too handsome to be vain, 
though he well knows how to take advantage of his royal pre- 
rogative. Olga, who is a slave to good looks, spoils him: so does 
almost every other woman: even his men friends are prone to 
look over a certain amount of waywardness and selfishness on 
account of his handsome face. He is gifted with a charming 


MIGNON. 


Bi 


manner, too, when he is allowed his own sweet will uncontra- 
dicted, and, being his own master, well born and well endowed, 
life is a very pleasant and uncomplicated problem for him at the 
present moment. 

Leo Vyner has not a tithe of his advantages. He has a fair, 
frank, good-looking (not handsome) face, a high spirit, immense 
pluck (an ugly name for courage), a certain amount of passion 
and determination; more brains than are necessary to prevent 
his being a fool, and an excellent digestion, which is, no doubt, 
in part the cause of his excellent temper. He is taller than Ray- 
mond by two inches, but does not look so on account of his per- 
fect development. 

Raymond continues to sleep the sleep of the just. Leo is deep 
in day-dreams, a perfectly new occupation for him — when the 
door uncloses and admits Olga. He jumps to his feet in a mo- 
ment. Raymond sleeps on. 

“ Hush!’' whispers Olga, putting her finger to her lips. “ Do 
not wake him.” She stands for a moment looking down upon 
the sleeper. “ Is it not a beautiful face?” she murmurs, “like 
a Greek god’s.” 

Leo assents: but his admiration for his friend is evidently not 
so keen as Olga’s, since one glance contents him. 

“We will leave him,” she tays, presently. “ Would you like 
to go over the stables ?” 

Has she fresh surprises in store for him ? Leo wonders. He does 
not believe that a woman can know anything about horses, al- 
though he has seen one or two ride very straight to hounds— a sight 
eminently disagreecvble to him. If there is one thing in the 
world he cares more for than another, if there is one suoject 
upon which his modesty permits him to think he knows more 
than another, it is horse-flesh. 

As they stroll out together through one of the great windows 
of the Folly, he wonders to himself whether he is going to be 
quite desillusionne or more astonished than ever. True, he re- 
members noticing how well her horse and groom were turned 
out last night; but if she had a good head man that would be 
only what one might expect.” 

“ The men are at tea,” she tells him. “ I always prefer com- 
ing when they are out of the way.” And she conducts him 
from stall to stall, from loose box to loose box. For every animal 
she has a word and a caress, and one and all receive her 
with the friendly greeting noise that is the language of the 
Houyhnhnms. Leo looks on with unqualified approval; if he 
were master here and his watchful eye had supervised every- 
thing for a twelvemonth and his pocket been able to carry out 
his ideas, things could not be better done. That is a tremendous 
admission for a man who fancies his own judgment on equine 
matters. The construction of the stables, the horses’ clothing, 
the temperature, even to the pattern of the plaited straw edging 
—everything is just as he would have it. He examines the 
horses with a critical eye — the ponies Olga drives, if one can call 
fifteen hands ponies, her carriage and saddle-horses, and the 
two hunters she keeps for her friends. Happy friends! thinks 


82 


MIGNOK 


Leo, who lias nothing of his own to touch them. Then they go 
to the harness-room, and he looks over harness, bits, and bridles. 
No sign of slackness or slovenliness here. 

“You must have a first-rate man,” he says to Mrs. Stratheden, 
not crediting her, however disposed he may be to admire her. 
with being the ruling genius of this department. 

“ Yes,” answers Olga, “ he is very painstaking. I had a goo 1 
deal to teach him, but he has quite got into my w^ays now.” 

She makes the remark without the slightest vanity or con- 
sciousness, without any desire or idea of elevating herself in 
Leo’s eyes. Why, indeed, should she be moved to any such con- 
sideration ? She simply looks upon him as something about two 
removes from an Eton boy, whom, being her guest, she is en- 
deavoring to amuse. 

Leo stares at her. She is sufficiently a thought-reader, and 
his face is expressive enough for her to arrive at a close approx- 
imation to his thought. Slie laughs merrily. 

“ I suppose you think women have no business to know any- 
thing afout such matters ?” 

“ I think you are the most wonderful woman I ever met with,” 
he says, and then blushes crimson at his own temerity. 

Olga laughs again. 

“ When one has lived a great many years in the world,” she 
remarks, “ one ought to have gained a certain amount of expe- 
rience. It is the only compensation one has for growing old.” 

“ Why do you talk like that?” cries Leo, almost indignantly. 
“ You are as young as — as any woman need wish to be.” 

His very downright and evidently sincere compliment is not 
unacceptable to Olga. 

“ Come,” she says, not affecting to notice it; let us go and 
see if Raymond is awake.” They find that young gentleman in 
the act of rousing himself. 

“ Come and sing us something, won’t you?” he says to Mrs, 
Stratheden. She is very good-natured, particularly as a hostess, 
and complies. 

“For five minutes,” she says: “it is too hot to sing to-day. 
And, without further prelude, she sits down and sings two simple 
ballads with a voice that seems to Leo the sweetest he has ever 
heard. 

“ Raymond,” she says, rising, and shutting the piano as an in- 
timation that the concert is over, “ I want to show you my new 
pistol: there is just time to try it before I put my habit on,” 

“ All right,” he answers. “ I’ll get the target. The usual 
place, I suppose ?” 

They go out on the lawn, the shady side of the house, and 
Raymond puts a bullet in the pistoL 

“ Be careful!” says Olga: “ the pull-off is very light.” 

He fires three times to the left of the bull’s-eye. 

“ I don’t think it’s quite true,” he observes. 

Olga takes it from him and fires straight in the bull’s-eye. 

She hands it to Leo. His shot hits the target a little to the 
right. 

“ Let me have another try,” says Raymond, reloading. At the 


MIGNOK 


83 


instant that his finger is on the trigger, a dog he brought with 
him, and which has just escaped from the stables, rushes up to 
him, frantic wfith delighted excitement. He turns sharply to 
chide it, his hand turns with his body, the pistol goes off, and— 
does not hit the target. 

“Confound you, you brute!” he cries, angrily, to the animal, 
who is more excited than ever by the sound of the report. He 
is stooping to pick up a fresh bullet, when Olga utters a little 
cry and runs toward his friend. At the S^ie instant, Leo feels 
a curious sensation in his left hand: blood is trickling through 
his fingers. He tries to raise the arm, but cannot for the pain. 

“ I expect I am shot in the shoulder,” he says, quietly, putting 
up his other hand to it. As he speaks, Raymond looks up, sees 
the blood dripping in a pool upon the grass, and turns ghastly 
white; his legs seem giving way under him. 

“ Good Good! what is it?” he cries. 

“ Come into the house,” says Olga, not losing her presence of 
mind. “ Do not move your arm more than you can help. Ray- 
mond, send William off on the fastest horse at once for Mr, 
Rushbrook; no, stop! tell Jenkins to drive the bay in the little 
dog-cait and to bring the doctor back with him. Don’t lose a 
moment!” 

Leo tries to make light of it, but a sick feeling is creeping over 
him, and the blood is running in streams down his arm now. 
Mrs. Stratheden hurries him into the first room they come to; 
she remembers with a sort of misgiving that it was here poor 
George was brought after he broke his back. She makes him lie 
on a sofa near the open window, and rings the bell violently. 
The impassive Truscott appears in swift answer to this unusual 
summons. In a few words she explains what has happened, 
and bids him call the housekeeper and bring bandages and cold 
water. 

The first thing to be done is to get his coat off. It is done; but 
by his deathly pallor she sees it has been almost too much for 
him. Not for one instant does she lose her head, although she 
is in an agony of terror at the sight of the blood continuing to 
stream from him. She remembers hearing somewhere that a 
man bleeding from a wound should be laid fiat on the ground ; 
she makes him lie on the fioor. and sends for brandy; with her 
own hands she cuts his shirt from his shoulder and arm; the 
grande dame^ the pruc^eare forgotten in the emergency; nothing 
but the woman is left. The bright-red blood spurts out in little 
jets with every pulsation, and Olga remembers, with sickening 
apprehension, to have heard that bright-colored blood comes 
from an artery. 

Raymond has come in, and is standing looking at her, ghastly 
white and shivering, helpless as a child. Her delicate laces are 
stained and dabbled, her white fingers are red, and yet she does 
not falter nor shrink. Truscott and the housekeeper are sickly 
pale, and tremble like leaves as they help her. Leo sees every- 
thing as if in a dream; he has no inclination to speak, but some- 
how he feels safe in Olga’s hands. The wound is in the fieshy 
part of the arm; she straps and bandages it as tight as she and 


84 


MIONOK 


Truscott can, but the blood still oozes through the bandages. He 
has already lost a frightful quantity; eveiy thing about is sat- 
urated with it. The sight is horrible. Mrs. Forsyth, hearing of 
an accident, comes running, but at the sight staggers, and 
nearly falls. 

“ Take her away, Raymond,^’ cries Olga, imperiously, glad to 
be rid of them both; and he obeys. 

Olga is distracted. She thinks the poor boy will die under her 
hands. Oh, how the moments creep! She looks despairingly at 
the clock ; it is only twenty minutes since all this happened. 
With Bonnibel’s best speed, Jenkins can but just be getting into 
Altham; and the doctor may he out. Oh, why had she not 
thought to tell him to bring any doctor, the first, the nearest ? 
What can she do ? what can she do ? she thinks, in an agony, see- 
ing that the bandages seem to have no effect: and all at once she 
remembers that her father used to tell how a woman had once 
saved the life of a friend by pressing her fingers into the wound 
until the surgeon came. It was horrible; but what did that 
matter in comparison with this boy’s life ? She undid the band- 
ages; the blood welled out again. She shut her teeth hard, 
and pressed her fingers tightly upon the bleeding arm. 

The effect was magical; one of her finger-tips was on the 
artery, and checked the flow at once. And there she sat beside 
him on the floor for thirty -five minutes, during which the posi- 
tion became positive agony to her; but she only set her teeth 
harder and refused to move. When Mr. Rush brook arrived and 
relieved her, she fainted. On coming to herself, she was on her 
own bed, with Mrs. Forsyth and the doctor bending over her. 
She had not the faintest recollection of what had happened — 
only had a shuddering instinct of something horrible. 

“Come, come, that’s right!” are the first words she hears in 
the voice of Mr. Rushbrook, who has known her from a child. 
“ We shall do now.” 

“ What is the matter?” she asks, faintly, a strange confusion 
making havoc with her senses. “ Have I been shot ?” 

“ No, no, my darling,” answers Mrs, Foryth, hastily; “ it was 
Mr. Vyner, Raymond’s friend. He is doing quite well now, 
thanks to you.” 

“ Thanks indeed,” echoes the doctor. “ But for you it’s very 
doubtful wdiether he wouldn’t have been in a better world by 
now. ” 

“ What have you done with him?” asks Olga, faintly. 

“ I have stopped the bleeding and left Truscott to look after 
him. He must not be moved. I have ordered a bed to be put 
up in the room. You’ll have him for a visitor longer than you 
bargained for when you asked him to spend the day.” 


MIGNOK 85 

CHAPTER XIV, 

“ And the breath 

Of her sweet tendance hovering over him 
Filled all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper and with ever deepr-r love, 

As the southwest that blowing Bala lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So passed the days.” 

Enid. 

Raymond is distracted, and wanders about like a restless 
spirit; the poor fellow feels as if his unlucky accident had 
marked him with the brand of Cain. Mrs. Stratheden is in her , 
room, Mrs. Forsyth with her, and the doctor will not hear of* 
his going near Leo, who is to be kept perfectly quiet. So he 
elects dismally to go home and carry the dreadful news to his 
mother. 

“ Have my horse put to,” he says, dolefully, to Jenkins; and 
I shall be glad if you’ll keep that brute of a dog here till to- 
morrow. I can’t bear the sight of him. I feel as if I should 
shoot him if I took him home.” 

“ Very good, sir,” responds the automatical Jenkins. 

So poor Nep, howling and tugging at his chain, hears his 
master go off without him, all unconscious, poor beast, of the 
dire misfortune he has brought on that beloved head. After a 
couple of hours’ persistent efforts, he succeeds in slipping his 
collar, and arrives at home in time to appear, like Banquo’s 
ghost, at his master’s dinner. He is forthwith consigned to the 
stables, still ignorant of his crime. 

Meanwhile, Leo, having been put to bed, remains in a state of 
drowsiness and helplessness perfectly new to the young athlete; 
he feels no inclination to think or speak, and does not even feel 
surprised or concerned at the very unusual position in which he 
finds himself. In the evening Olga comes to see him. He ex- 
periences a sensation of pleasure, and has a vague remembrance 
that she has done some great thing for him. He wants to thank 
her, and opens his lips, but the words do not come readily. 

Hush!” she says, putting her finger to her lips: “ you are 
not to speak a word.” And then, without the slightest con- 
sciousness, just as if she were his nurse, she lays her cool hand 
on his brow, Leo’s eyes glisten at her soft touch,: it is a new 
sensation to him, a most pleasant one. 

“ Don’t take it away,” he murmurs; and Olga sits down on the 
edge of the bed and continues to pass her hand over his forehead 
and his fair cropped curls until it has the mesmeric effect of 
sending him to sleep. 

Mrs. Forsyth, who has come in with her, sits in an arm chair 
and contemplates the picture. A little smile, half -amused, half- 
malicious, plays on her lips. 

“ I am very sorry for that boy,” she says, when she and Olga 
are sitting, a little later, in the latter’s boudoir. 

“ So am I,” answers Olga. 


86 MIGNON, 

“ I do not mean so much for the accident as for the probable 
results.” 

“ You think it will leave him weak for a long time.” 

Weak in his* head,” replies her friend. “Seriously, Olga, I 
think it would be kinder of vou to leave him to me and Trus- 
cott.” 

“ Ma chere,'’ says Olga, “ I think you are pleased to speak in 
parables.” 

“It is a very dangerous position for a young man to be 
nursed by a charming woman. He will fall in love with you.” 

“ Absurd!” exclaims Olga, petulantly. “I am old enough to 
be his mother.” 

“ Hardly.” 

“ At all events I shall nurse him as if I were,” answers Olga, 
with determination. “ Would you have me leave the boy 
to servants ? I did not think you were so heartless, ma chere.'' 

“ I will take care of him: and he would have no difficulty in 
looking upon me as a mother.” 

“ Certainly not” (with decision). “ The accident happened in 
my house, and I consider it my duty to look after him.” 

“ Well, my love, you will prove an excellent nurse, I am quite 
sure,” returns Mrs. Forsyth. “ It is wonderful that such a frag- 
ile creature should have so much nerve. Very few women 
could have done what you did to-day. I am afraid 1 behaved 
like a sad coward; but the sight was too dreadful. I never could 
bear to see blood.” 

“ Ma chere,"' returns Olga, “ if there had been no one else to do 
it, you or any other woman would have done the same; you 
could not have let the poor boy die before your eyes. It was a 
most unfortunate thing altogether. I think poor Raymond is 
almost the most to be pitied. I wish he had not gone without 
my seeing him. I never will have a pistol or a rifle out again 
for amusement. Poor papa always said it was the most danger- 
ous thing in the world.” 

Mrs. Stratheden gets very little sleep that niglit. Her nerves 
have been terribly shaken. All night, between sleeping and 
waking, she enacts the horrible scene again and again, and is 
thankful when morning comes and she can go out into the air. 
Having heard that he has passed a quiet night and is still sleep- 
ing, she orders her horse, and at eight o’clock is in the saddle. 
This very unusal event does not find Jenkins unprepared; he 
and his horses are as well turned out as if the time were five 
o'clock p. M. and the scene Mayfair. 

It is such a morning. “ How can people remain in bed the 
best part of the day!” thinks Olga, as she canters swiftly across 
the common, with the delicious breeze kissing her cheek and rip- 
pling her dark hair. There was once a great poet who wTote the 
following lines, or something like them, apropos of those who 
slumber in the morning: 

“ Who would in such a gloomy state remain 
Longer than Nature craves, when every Muse 
And every blooming pleasure waits without 
To bless the wildly devious morning walk?’^ 


MIGNOK 


87 


The author of those celebrated lines was a proverbially late 
riser. Madame Olga’s usual breakfast- hour is ten; and that is 
‘•positively her first appearance.” On this occasion she is far 
more conscious of the virtue of being up so early than she had 
ever been of the sin of losing the best hours of the day. She is 
on her way to L’Estrange Hall, to set Raymond’s mind at rest 
about his friend; his place is something under four miles from 
the Manor House. She has not ridden quite half-way, when she 
meets him bowling swiftly along in his stanhope. He turns pale 
at the unexpected apparition of Mrs. Stratheden out at this un- 
earthly time of the morning, as he considers it. 

“He has had a goodnight; he is going on famously,” Olga 
hastens to say, as he stops beside her.” 

“ Thank God!” cries Raymond, with a sigh of relief that comes 
from the very bottom of his heart. “ It’s no use going on to in- 
quire, then,”" he proceeds, rather plaintively; “ though Heaven 
knows what I’m to do with myself all the livelong day, now I’ve 
got up so early.” 

“ Have a ride with me,’' says Olga, “ and come back to break- 
fast. You can ride Jenkins’ horse, and he can go home with 
your man.” 

“ I should like it awfully,” cries the young fellow, giving the 
reins to his groom and jumping down with great alacrity. “ I’m 
not exactly in riding trim; but that doesn’t matter this time in 
the morning.” 

Jenkins dismounts, lengthens the stirrups, and Raymond is on 
the chestnut’s back in a second. 

“ Olga, what a darling you are!” he cries, putting his hand on 
hers when the grooms are out of sight. 

(I must explain that, in consideration of his youth and his 
having once fancied himself broken-hearted on her account, 
Raymond is now and then permitted, generally under protest, 
to give way to his affectionate feelings.) 

“ You behaved like a heroine, and I stood gaping like a fool 
and didn’t know what in the world to do. I believe he would 
have died if it hadn’t been for you.” 

“Nothing of the sort,” returns Olga; “but I have often 
thought how necessary it is to know what to do in case of sud- 
den emergencies: I mean, to get up the treatment of casual- 
ties.” 

“ How does he look ? Have you seen him ? Do you think the 
doctor will let me have a peep at him to-day ?” Raymond asks. 
“ And to think of the awful trouble I’ve put you to! Now, if it 
had happened at home, it wouldn’t have been half so bad; only 
I suppose it would have killed my poor mother. She’s in a 
dreadful way, as it is.” 

“ I am very thankful it happened where it did, as it was to 
happen,” answers Olga. 

“ When will he be able to be removed?” asks Raymond. 

“ Oh, that’s not to be thought of for ages; and it will be a lit- 
tle excitement for Mrs. Forsyth and myself, having a young man 
to nurse.” 


88 


MIGNOK 


“Olga” (rather jealously), “don’t make too much fuss over 
him. He’ll be falling in love with you.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” answers Mrs. Stratheden. “ I am an 
old woman, as I have told you before. And I will notallow you 
to call me Olga: it is not respectful.” 

“ I will, when no one is by,” he answers, with a petulant flash 
of his hazel eyes. “ Olga! Olga! You look about nineteen this 
morning; and I should like to kiss you.” 

Mrs. Stratheden cannot help laughing. 

“ My dear boy, you are getting far too precocious. If you 
behave like this, ancient as I am, I shall be obliged to have 
a chaperon by when you come to see me, and ma chere's office 
will no longer be a sinecure.” 

“ I wish to Heaven I was ten years older,” cries Raymond. 
“ Would you marry me if I were?” 

She turns and looks admiringly at his handsome face. 

“ No, my dear,” she answers, after a pause. “ I never met any 
one more calculated to give a wife chronic heartache than you.” 
To soften her words, she gives the liand so close to hers a little 
squeeze, and sets her horse going at a hand-gallop over the short 
turf in the direction of home. 

All day Leo remains tolerably quiet and easy, but toward 
night his mind begins to wander. He fancies himself in the 
Folly, with the water plashing into the marble basin and the 
organ playing softly and the white marble statues gleaming 
through the leaves. Presently he looks up and sees Olga stand- 
ing in the doorway smiling and putting her finger to her lips. 
Then, as he lookS; she turns ghastly pale, her white dress is 
stained crimson, and she is bending over something that lies at 
her feet. He tries hard to raise himself to see what or who it is. 
but unseen hands drag him back. Over and over again this 
scene repeats itself. Then he sees her standing in the same 
place, only three times more beautiful, with a golden crown on 
her head. Raymond is lying on the other side of the fountain, 
asleep, A malicious smile comes into her eyes; she raises her 
wand, and Raymond’s beautiful face begins to change and 
change to the semblance of a swme*S; and downward to his 
limbs creeps the horrid transformation, till he grovels at her 
feet. Then she turns her eyes to him. and he shrieks out. Olga 
comes into the room at midnight to look at him. and hears him 
cry, “Circe! Circe!” and fancies it is a racehorse or a favorite 
dog. Little does she dream that it is herself, in the form of the 
dangerous enchantress of .(E3ea. whose pity he is invoking 

For a week Leo lies in bed. The bullet has been extracted; he 
is doing remarkably well, the doctor says, but perfect quiet is 
necessary. His arm is painful, but he is very brave and pa- 
tient, and will scarcely admit that he suffers. Olga devotes 
herself to him, watches over him like a child, and one day, 
noticing that his dinner is not nicely cut up. she undertakes the 
task of feeding him herself. She has such exquisitely gentle 
delicate ways. Leo watches her as if she were a being from 
anotlier sphere, and, watching her, no wonder that he loses head 
and heart too. 


MIGNOK 


89 


Ten days go by. With this tender nursing and his iron con- 
stitution" Leo is convalescent; he is permitted to lie on the sofa 
by the window; in a day or two he is to go into the Folly. 
Strange to relate, this young Hercules, who has never had" a 
day’s illness, who one might imagine would chafe furiously at 
his enforced confinement, looks forward with positive pain to 
getting well, and will not be induced to take a hopeful view of 
his case. 

“ I never knew such a fellow,” exclaims Mr. Rushbrook; he 
gets quite irritable when I try to cheer him up. But there! 
that’s the way with the strong ones; they always insist on 
taking the worst possible vie^v of the case when they ail any- 
thing.” 

Leo has become considerably attached to Truscott, who, be- 
sides being an admirable servant, is very kind-hearted, and as 
gentle as a woman. Truscott is devoted to his mistress, and 
Leo has a mania for hearing over and over again Mrs. Strathe- 
den’s heroic behavior after his accident, which Truscott seems 
equally fond of expiating upon. 

“Poor young fellow!” he says to himself; “he’s going the 
way Of most of ’em. But there! I don’t wonder at it; only it 
does seem a pity she can’t give over those ways of hers that does 
so much mischief.” 

Raymond comes over regularly every day to see his friend, an 
attention wliich the latter is sometimes ungracious enough not 
to appreciate, especially when he sees Olga’s graceful figure sail* 
ing across the lawn with Raymond in close attendance, or gets 
glimpses of them from his window rowing to and fro on the lake. 
Besides, when Raymond is not there, Mrs. Stratheden brings 
some little delicate shred of lace work and sits with him, or 
reads to him, or, best of all, mesmerizes him. Olga believes to 
a certain extent in mesmerism, and rather fancies her own gift 
of electricity; therefore, when Leo, witli a duplicity very much 
o].)posed to his open nature, pretends to the most marvelous 
effects of her mesmerism, and actually feigns to go to sleep under 
it, she readily consents to use her soothing influence for his benefit. 
It is mesmerism, no doubt, and of a very dangerous character, 
the delight that he feels at the touch of her delicate fingers on 
his brow and hair (for he refuses to believe in the efficacy of 
passes of the hand made at a distance). Olga, who is sympathetic 
to a fault, and who would take the utmost trouble to alleviate 
the sufferings of horse, dog, cat, or any other animal in pain, 
benevolently puts herself to no small trouble for Leo’s pleasure 
and comfort, and is firmly convinced that she is doing him good. 
From having done so much in his behalf, she feels an interest in 
him that a month of close acquaintance in an ordinary way 
would have failed to produce. Now he is getting well she talks 
to him; the freshness, the healthiness of his ideas please and 
almost surprise her; he has not acquired the blase ^ superficial, 
skeptical tone affected by the jemiesse of this age. 

As for Leo, he is as madly in love as a man only can be who 
loves for the first time in that golden space between youtli and 
manhood, who has not wasted his best years on unworthy pas- 


90 


MIGNOK 


sions, nor grown, from contact with impurity, to doubt purity, 
but who loves with all passion and reverence combined, and 
who believes in the woman he loves as he believes in God. And 
if the woman, as sometimes happens, is older than himself, if, 
as does not often happen, she is gifted with an exquisite tact and 
delicacy, a perfect savoir faire^ an entourage of wealth, luxury, 
and perfect taste — well, all that can be said is that to fall in love 
under such circumstances is a woful misfortune for a young fel- 
low, if there seems as little chance as there does in Leo’s case of 
fruition crowning his hopes, and that it is likely to go very hard 
with him. 

Leo lets this delicious poison steal through his veins; he never 
tries to check it, nay, fosters it by thinking of his idol when she 
is absent, and gazing at her jpicture. For one day when she 
brought him a book of photographs to look over, he found a 
colored vignette of her that pleased him, and carefully abstracted 
it. But, after gazing at it for a few hours with secret delight, 
and running the risk of injuring the colors by pressing it to his 
lips, his mind began to misgive him that he had done an hngen- 
tleman-like thing in taking it without permission. The next 
time Olga came in, he told her with a deep blush what he had 
done, and asked permission to retain it. Mrs. Stratheden smiled, 
and consented; after all, it is not a very unusual or audacious re- 
quest in the present day for a man to ask for a lady’s portrait, 
especially under such exceptional circumstances. 

You must give me yours in exchange,” she smiles, thereby 
making matters still easier for him. 

“ I shall be delighted,” he answered; though I haven’t been 
taken since I was at Oxford, and that was in flannels. A man 
looks such a fool in a photograph; and I take worse than most 
fellows. One eye is generally twice the size of the other, and 
my mouth literally from ear to ear.” 

Olga looks at him. It is a comely face enough, though utterly 
wanting in those fine curves and contours that make the beauty 
of Raymond’s. The skin, though pale now, is of that fair and 
healthy hue through which you may see the swift blood course 
when he is excited by exercise or strong feeling; the white of 
his eyes is almost as blue as a bird’s egg, and clear, without vein 
or speck; his teeth are white, regular and pearly-looking (though 
he was once foolhardy enough to bite a nail in two with them 
for a wager); and he has that generally fresh, clean look, that 
especially distinguishes an Englishman. Olga has conceived 
quite an affection for her nursling. She will be sorry when he 
is well enough to leave her. 

“ 1 should think you might very well be moved to the Hall in 
a day or two?” remarks Raymond, cheerfully, one morning, 
nearly three weeks after the accident. 

Somehow Leo does not jump at the suggestion. 

“I don’t know,” he says, rather coldly. “I don’t fancy I 
could bear four miles of jolting just yet.” 

“ Well, you know, old fellow,” pursues Raymond, confidently, 
“ the truth is that I feel frightfully, giving Mrs. Stratheden all 
this trouble, She has behaved like an angel about it, but all the 


MIGNON, 


91 


same one can’t help feeling it must have been a dreadful bore 
for her. And I am entirely responsible for it.” 

Leo is not very strong yet; his lip quivers; he has some little 
difficulty in commanding his voice. 

“ No one can feel more keenly than I do,” he says, at last, in a 
cold voice, “ the trouble I have given Mrs. Stratheden and — and 
every one else: still ” 

“My dear old Leo, don’t talk like that! Why, if it had only 
been at home, you know, I wouldn’t have minded what had to 
be done. I would have sat up with you all night myself; any- 
thing I could do to atone for my dreadful misfortune I should 
have done thankfully; you know that. It was only on Olga — on 
Mrs. Stratheden’s account.” 

Gall to wormwood! he calls her Olga! A pang of bitter jeal- 
ousy gnaws poor Leo’s heart. Raymond loves her still, perhaps 
— away, O, horrible perhaps! At this moment Olga comes in, 
carrying a lovely rosebud. ^ 

“ Fcff you,” she says, with a smile, giving it into Leo’s Iiand. 

O, poor, tender little rosebud! what had you done to deserve 
so cruel a fate? to be scorched by the hot kisses of a mortal; to 
have your tender leaves crushed against his strong beating 
heart; when you were faint and athirst, to have only two salt 
tears for drink. This is your doom hereafter; but now you are 
taken with a gentle hand, placed in water, and looked at and 
praised and glorified. Some such a story one has heard of out 
of the flower- world before to-day. 

“I am telling Leo,” cries Raymond, cheerfully, “ that I think 
he might soon be moved now— in a day or two perhaps.” 

‘ ‘ I have been a trouble to you and your household too long 
already,” says poor Leo; but Olga detects a tremor in his voice. 

“ But I shall not let you go,” she answers, smiling, “ however 
anxiously you may want to get away.” 

Leo’s eyes are so extremely expressive at this moment that 
Olga looks out of the window, and Raymond says to himself in 
disgust: 

“ Hang me if I don’t believe the fellow is falling in love with 
her!” 

“ I am very proud of my patient,” pursues Olga, “ and I am 
not going to risk a relapse" I shall keep you, at all events, for 
another week; not a day less.” 

Leo feels this to be the happiest moment of his life. The 
certainty of another week, seven whole days, seven times twenty- 
four hours, in the adored presence — well, not exactly that, but 
to be under the same roof with her — is intensest bliss. 

Raymond is by no means so enchanted. An hour later, when 
he is strolling beside Mrs. Stratheden under the trees, he says, 
petulantly: 

“ I suppose you know that Leo is head over ears in love with 
you. Under the circumstances, I think it is neither very wise 
nor very kind to keep him staying on here, when he is perfectly 
well able to be moved.” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense, Raymond!” 

“ It is not nonseitse, Olga, and you know it perfectly well.” 


92 


MIQNON. 


“ It is nonsense,” retorts Olga, with a little stamp, and a flash 
of her eyes; ^‘and I forbid you to say such a thing to me 
again.” 

But, truth to tell, Olga is not quite easy in her own mind. 

“ Of course,” says &ymond, huffily, “ that’s only what one 
might expect from a woman. But I did think you were dif- 
ferent.” 

“ Oh, indeed!” answers Olga, with a gleam of mischief in her 
eyes. ‘ ‘ It was very kind of you to except me from the common 
herd. Still, as a rule, if you have a theory, it’s more comfort- 
able to have it entirely free from exceptions.” 

“ I don’t know why women were invented,” says Raymond, 
gloomily. 

“Well,” replied Olga, with a little smile, “‘taking it all 
round,’ as you would say, it might have saved a good deal of 
misery and discomfort if there had only been one sex; but I am 
apt to think we might all have found it a little dull at times.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ Have you discovered what variety of little things affect the hearb 
and how surely they collectively gain it?” — Lord Chesterfield’’ s Letters. 

The happiest week of his life — so Leo chronicles his seven 
days’ reprieve. Now that the term of his visit is definitely fixed 
it costs him little exfort to throw off the invalid. He walks 
about the garden with his hostess, spends some time every morn- 
ing in the stables, even goes out driving with Olga in her pony- 
carriage. 

To think he could ever become such a faineant as to find utter 
happiness in lounging by a woman’s side, asking nothing more 
than to watch her as she holds the ribbons. Still such a case is 
not without a precedent, even besides the notable one of Om- 
phale and her hero. 

Olga is conscious of a pang. There can be no doubt now as to 
his love for her; nay, it is so transparent that butler, footmen, 
and grooms, unless they are as blindly unobservant as they have 
the good manners to pretend to be, must be perfectly aware of 
it. True, he never addresses her but with the most reserved re- 
spect, but his blue eyes have a gift of expression which he does 
not himself suspect, and even a child might notice the adoring 
looks he turns upon her when she addresses him on the most tri- 
fling subject. Olga is genuinely sorry, all the more so because 
it is impossible for any doubt to creep into her mind as to the 
utter truth and disinterestedness of his affection. 

And yet he has not spoken a syllable on the subject. Perhaps 
mesmerism has established a rapport between them that enables 
her to comprehend his feelings as she does. Not that she can 
gauge their depth, their passion, their intensity; to do that she 
must have known a like passion herself. And if once, in a meas- 
ure, she did, it is so long ago that the ineinor}^ has grown dim. 
Mrs. Forsyth, after her first hint, has seemed as unconscious of 
what is going on as Truscott or James or William. When Olga 
?toes not ask her opinion upon a subject she religiously abstains 


MIQNON, 


93 


from giving it: this is the key to her influence. Olga would not 
have liked interference from her best friend, and has enough 
common sense to guide her on the rare occasions when she does 
not choose to ask advice. As a rule, she consults Mrs. Forsyth 
upon every subject, small and great, particularly on the not un- 
frequent subject of her lovers. 

The days go by, the golden grains of pleasure mix with the 
infinite sands of Time, and drip away remorselessly through the 
hour-glass, howsoever Love’s hands may outstretch to stay them, 
and Leo begins to look unwillingly at the future that will so soon 
make this happiness a past. He has regarded life as a thing to 
look forward to joyously, boldly, as a young eagle soars at the 
sun; the one thing that has seemed to him awful, terrible, is 
the idea of being cut out of it, struck down in youth. And 
now, though the prospect before him is precisely what it was 
a month ago, though he may hunt, and shoot, fish, leap, run, 
box, as ever, though the sports and pastimes that made life what 
it was to him may be his as freely as of yore, he has a horrible 
misgiving that it is not going to be the same joyous thing as 
hitherto. Can one face, one voice, make pleasure pain, pain 
pleasure? He would not have believed it a few little weeks 
ago, not in his own case, at least. 

The possibility of winning Olga is as remote to him as that of 
winning an angel from heaven — Olga, who (in his opinion, at 
least) possesses every charm, who is fit for the highest sphere a 
woman can attain, and who, he has learned from Mrs. Forsyth, 
has refused high rank and wealth. Wealth! that obstacle is 
enough, let alone any other, to fix an insuperable gulf between 
them. She has everything, he nothing — comparatively speaking, 
at least. His father has a fair income and makes him a hand- 
some allowance. But, suppose the positions reversed, and he 
were rich and Mrs. Strathedenpoor; how could he for an instant 
presume to think the mistress of so many perfections would see 
anything in him to care f of ? Leo is none the worse for having 
such a modest opinion of himself. 

The last day comes. There is still somc^thing to cling to; he 
is to stay with Raymond until the eleventh, when they start 
for Scotland together; but it will be quite different. She will 
ask him over to lunch and to dine, perhaps in a formal way, 
and Raymond will always be there. This last day is full of sun- 
shine and sweetness; he spends all of it wuth her, looking with 
hungered eyes at the dear face that will be out of his horizon 
to-morrow, learning by heart every turn of the graceful head, 
every curve of the lip, the droop of her broad eyelids, the lan- 
guorous beauty of her eyes. Leo, unversed in feminine perfec- 
tions, has yet observed with delight the smallness of her arched 
feet, the delicate beauty of her hands. Little does Olga credit 
him with such powers of observation; like a woman who loves 
to please and who is not vain, she is always more conscious of 
the graces she thinks she lacks than of those it is obvious she 
possesses. 

The short day is sped. He has been like her shadow all day — 
in her boudoir, in the Folly, in the garden, on the water, in her 


94 


MIQNON, 


pony- carriage. Raymond has not been much at the Manor 
House during the last week; he is a little bit offended with both 
Olga and Leo, though he scarcely knows why himself, and there 
is rather a pretty girl come to stay with "Kitty Fox. Olga is 
genuinely sorry to lose her guest, though one might imagine 
that to entertain a stranger for nearly a month would be apt to 
grow irksome. It has given her something to do, something to 
think about — the greatest boon to a woman of her temperament, 
apt as she is to grow morbid when left to herself. 

If it had been Raymond,” she tells herself, “ fond as I am of 
him, he would have wwried me to death long before this. He 
would have grown cross and restless and bored, and would have 
spent part of the time making love to me, and the rest in envel- 
oping me and the whole sex in a comprehensive torrent of abuse. 
But this boy has been so patient and gentle, so thankful to every- 
body, and so good-tempered. And it must have been frightfully 
tedious to such a strong young fellow to lie on a sofa or wander 
about after a couple of women all day.” 

The moon is riding aloft in the deep sky when they come out 
from dinner, 

Ma chere,^^ says Olga, “ send for a shawl and come out; it is a 
positive sin to be in-doors this lovely night. Come, Mr. Vyner, 
let us go down to the water.” 

Leo needs no second command; he is by her side on the lawn. 
Mrs. Forsyth nods pleasantly, saying, “I will follow you,* 
which, however, she has no intention of doing. 

“ I like to win people’s gratitude,” she has told Olga, on occa- 
sion, “ and I know no way of doing it thoroughly or so cheaply 
as by occasionally depriving them of the pleasure of company. 
I do not mean you, my dear.” 

Mrs, Forsyth also finds a nap after dinner much iDleasanter 
than doing duenna. So Olga and Leo take their way across the 
lawn to the water-side. It is “ as bright as day,” some people 
would say; but, oh, how utterly different is the moon’s lovely 
light either from dawn, or garish day, or soft twilight! Who is 
proof against the beauty of a moonlight night ? — the radiance, 
the tenderness, the exquisite hush of it. Even w^hen the moon 
shines on a stone pavement between tw^o rows of houses, it is 
pleasant to look upon; how much more when she lies on the 
bosom of a lake, on broad meadow-lands, on the folded cups of 
the flowers; when she trickles through the leaves of the great 
trees, makes a silver mirror of each little w-ater-pool, and, great 
alchemist that she is, transmutes even a gravel path into gold 
inlaid with precious stones! Poor besonged, besonneted moon! 
whom the prosiest pen cannot scribble of without trying to in- 
vent a bit of original flattery for! how weary must thou be in 
thine own eternal perfection of men’s labored adulation ! 

Olga's keen senses are filled with the beauty of the night; she 
feels little inclination to talk; and Leo’s soul is disturbed by love, 
by present pleasure, by remembering how these delicious mo- 
ments are trickling away, bearing him toward to-morrow’ — a 
barren, cold to-morrow, since she will have gone out of it for 
him. They have strolled up and down, and are now sitting 


MIGNON. 


95 


tinder a tree, watching the water. It lies there like a sheet of 
glass, and in it you may see the dark yews and junipers, the 
tall shrubs, the lofty trees; so bright it is you may see, too, the 
colors of the reflected flowers, azure and orange, sapphire and 
amaranth . 

A tiny ripple steals across and shivers the mirror into a thou- 
sand sprays of diamonds. Silence is perilous: the moon is 
allowed to be dangerous to the senses. All at once, with an ir- 
resistible impulse of passion, Leo throws himself down beside 
the woman he loves, and in a voice shaken and quivering with 
strong feeling, cries to her, “ What shall I do without* you this 
time to-morrow!’’ 

Olga is startled. Her immense fund of tact and savoir faire 
does not at this moment supply her with the precise knowledge 
of what to do and say. She feels intuitively that this genuine 
and unpremeditated burst of feeling is not to be treated like an 
ordinary vulgar declaration. The moonlight shows her the 
workings of Leo’s face — the mixed passion and reverence in it, 
the love of the woman -controlled by the worship of something 
higher that he imagines in her. And, to tell the truth, a simple 
passion that had nothing of a higher adoration in it would have 
found but scant favor in Olga’s eyes. 

She acts more on the impulse to console him than on the con- 
sideration of what prudence demands, as she puts out her hand 
to him and says, “ I shall miss you very much, too.” 

The touch of her little hand thrills him to his heart’s core; he 
covers it with kisses. And then his heart breaks into a rushing 
torrent of words, like a mountain stream that has burst its 
banks. 

“Don’t be angry with me; don’t think me mad. I never- 
meant to tell you — I don’t know what came over me just now, 
but I love you. Love you! ah, I think it must be something 
deeper, stronger than love. Love seems such a poor little weak 
word to express what I feel. Don’t laugh at me! no, you won’t 
do that; you are too good and kind; but I have never loved a 
woman before, and I feel that I cannot bear to think of life 
away from you. I always looked forward to life: it seemed to 
me as long as I could hunt and shoot I must be happy; and now 
I don’t know how I shall live through the days without the sight 
of you.” 

If pity is akin to love, Olga must be very near loving Leo, she 
is so sorry for him. His strong young frame is shakeii like a 
reed, his blue eyes devour her face for one gleam of hope. She 
lays a hand softly on the fair-haired head. A feeling of tender- 
ness creeps over her, such as a woman can only feel for a man 
younger than herself, or who is sick, or somehow needs her 
protection. To the most impassioned words of a man of the 
world she would have listened, nay, had listened, with coldness, 
even shrinking. Leo inspired no such feeling. Indeed, she 
was very much inclined to stoop down and kiss him for sheer 
pity’s sake, only that such a proof of sympathy might be dan - 
gerous. 

“My dear boy,” she says, looking genuinely grieved, and 


% 


MIONON. 


speaking in the most maternal tone she can command, ‘‘you 
know every one must be in love for the first time; it is quite a 
natural disorder” (she smiles, but he does not respond), ‘‘and 
has to be gone through, like measles or whooping-cough. But 
you know- 1 am years older than you. Think of me as a friend, 
an elder sister; think that I am fond of you, as indeed I am, 
and that w^hen you w-ant sympathy or help you have only to 
come to me.” 

This magnanimous offer does not seem to make much im- 
pression on Leo. He looks at her with some reproach. 

“ I have read in books of women saying those sort of things,” 
he says. “ Of the two, I had rather you had been angry with 
me for my presumption.” 

“ Presumption! nonsense!” replies Olga. A woman is always 
flattered by a sincere affection being offered her.” 

“Sincere affection!” groans the poor lad. “ Oh, if 1 could 
only make some enormous sacrifice to prove to you that I love 
you for all time, all eternity!” 

At this moment he is capable, were it in his power, of com- 
mitting a sublime folly equal to that of the Duke of Medina, w-ho 
for love of Elizabeth of France, Queen of Spain, at a fete he 
gave, burned his palace, and with it pictures, tapestries, all he 
possessed, for the sake of holding her in his arms one moment 
and whispering his love in her ear as he bore her from the 
flames. Olga smiles a sad little smile. She has heard these pas- 
sionate declarations before, uttered in as good faith; she knows 
how these tropical flowers, the growth of burning suns, 
languish and die under the cold shadow of custom and satiety. 
And yet there is something in this young fellow that stamps him 
different from those who have gone before; she has a warmer 
liking for him than she has had this many a long day for a man. 
If love could only last! the thought comes swdftly into her brain, 
and takes flight again as quickly. 

“ I know^ you are as far removed from me as if 1 were the 
poorest beggar,” Leo hurries on, in his impassioned tones, 
“How could I expect you, the cleverest, the most beautiful, 
most charming woman in the w^orld, to look upon me as any- 
thing but a stupid young lout, wdiom you w-ould have never 
stooped to notice but for that blessed accident!” 

“Leo,” she w-hispers, calling him by his name for the first 
time, “ I will not have you talk in that way. My dear boy, all 
that I am and have w^ould be a very poor excuse for your t brown- 
ing away the best years of your life upon an old w-oraan.” 

“What do you mean?” he cries, a bright red flush mounting 
to his brow. 

“I mean nothing,” she answers, hastily. “ I will be your best 
friend, as 1 told you; you may come to me when you like, and 
as often as you like; but never think, never speak of this again.” 

“ And do you imagine.” he cries, hotly, “ that 1 could bear to 
see you day after day, to look at your dear, beautiful face, and 
know that I was never to be anything more to you ? — perhaps to 
see some other man come and steal you away from before my 


MIGNON. 


97 


very eyes ? No!” (passionately), I would rather throw myself 
into that lake!” 

It is marvelous what great results spring from trifles. Leo, 
who half an hour before had not presumed even to hint at his 
love for Olga, is now using language so bold to her that it startles 
him when he recollects it later. 

There is silence between them: he dares not plead his cause, 
dares not ask for hope, and yet he feels that to leave her thus is 
like tearing the heart from his body. 

“You will soon be able to shoot now,” Mrs. Stratheden says, 
wishing to break the awkwardness of the pause; “ then hunting 
will begin: you will go back more keen than ever to your old 
pursuits. It is only idleness that has put this mischief into your 
brain.” 

Ke looks up at her. 

“ Do you believe what you say ?” he asks, in a low, mortified 
voice. “You have even a poorer opinion of me, then, than I 
thought for. ” 

To this she makes no answer, but looks with far-off eyes at the 
water. After a time she says, gently: 

“ It is getting late; we must be going in.” 

“Not yet; not yet,” he pleads; and his soberer senses come 
creeping back to him. “ Forgive me,” he murmurs, very hum- 
bly. “ I never meant to say a word of all this. Say you for- 
give me.” 

Olga turns her luminous eyes upon him: she does not see his 
sorrowful face quite clearly, by reason of a mist that has gath- 
ered before them. 

“ Forgive you!” she says, softly. “ What have I to forgive? 
I feel honored by your love — your first love, as you tell me. But 
you know ” (with a half smile) ‘ ‘ people never marry their first 
loves. Good-bye, dear Leo. I shall wish you good-bye to-night; 
I am going over quite early to-morrow to Kitty Fox, who wants 
to see me, and Raymond comes for you at eleven. You will be 
gone before I return.” 

An icy chill creeps to Leo’s heart. The last moment has come, 
then, the actual moment of parting: perhaps he may never see 
her again. A deadly sickness comes over him: garden, water, 
trees, seem reeling before his eyes. Olga sees his distress, and 
longs to comfort him. No one ever hated to give or to see pain 
as she does; her sympathy is the only feeling that can outrun her 
prudence. She stoops and Jays her lips on his fair close curls. 
As if a flame had scorched him, he starts up with kindling eyes, 
his impassioned face almost handsome in the intensity of its ex- 
pression. 

“ Kiss me once more,” he whispers, in a choked voice--“ only 
this once.” He raises his lips to hers, and she stoops and kisses 
him. Then she rises, and says, in a quick, imperious voice, 
•‘Do not touch me! do not follow me!” and goes swiftly from 
him toward the house. He follows her with his eyes until the 
last fold of her lace has disappeared, and then he flings himself 
down beside the spot where an instant ago she stood. 

His strong young frame is shaken by a storm of sobs, Sobs ? 


98 


MIGNON, 


this young Hercules six feet high ? He must be very weak still 
from his wound. 

Olga enters the house and goes to her room like one in a 
trance. She flings herself into a chair: it happens to stand in 
front of a long mirror. 

“How could I do it? how could I do it?” she says over and 
over again to herself, and looks at the figure in the mirror to 
see if some strange change has come over her. A slow red color, 
born of vexed shame, mantles in her cheek; she hides it even 
from herself with her two hands. 

“ He was such a boy, and I was so sorry for him.” 

That is the answer she gives to her own question. But still it 
does not satisfy her. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

La jolie femme n’est plus qu’un luxe importun, un apanage inquie- 
tant, une enseigne perilleuse, qui a son beau cote tourne vers la rue, et 
dont vous n’avez que le revers; ce n’est plus qu’un engin a attirer la 
foudre.” Octave Feuillet. 

Mignon has been married three months. After that outbreak 
of passion on her wedding-day, the reader will probably expect 
to find her at home with her parents, whilst her husband wan- 
ders the world broken-hearted. Very different, however, is the 
reality. Sir Tristram and Lady Bergholt are in Rome, living ap- 
parently in perfect amity. Mignon is like a spiteful child; when 
angered, she morally pinches and scratches the offender vigor- 
ously, but, being pacified by her vengeance, soon regains her 
equanimity, and expects her victim to forget the outbreak as she 
herself forgets it. She is capable, on no very great provocation, 
of saying things bitter and cruel enough to alienate friends and 
lovers for all time, but trusts to the same lovely mouth that has 
given the offense to atone for it by a smile or a kiss. 

Lady Bergholt is perfectly satisfied with her position. Shelias 
adopted the role of a fine lady as if she had played it all her life, 
and is keenly alive to the advantages conferred by rank and 
wealth. She had undervalued them a few months ago, simply 
because they were a sealed book to her; now she appreciates 
them to the full. Her respect for Sir Tristram is increased by 
the attention she sees universally paid to him, nor can she help 
being impressed by his perfect breeding and unfailing courtesy 
toward people in all ranks of life. 

His tenderness toward herself is infinite. The world, observ- 
ing it, smiles and says, “No wonder he is devoted to such a 
lovely creature;” though had the w^orld been witness of a certain 
scene we recall on an October afternoon, it might deem it less a 
matter of course. Mignon finds the adoration of a middle-aged 
husband the most irksome feature of the situation; and yet how 
careful he is not to weary nor disgust her! Her words are cut 
into his heart: “ You kneiv I hated you all along, hut you would 
marry The fear lest she should some day repeat them 

makes an arrant coward of him. If they had never been uttered, 
he would probably have adored and spoiled her, but he would 


MIGNON. 


99 


not have been the slave to the fear of contradicting her that he 
is now. Loving her as idolatrously as he does (none the less for 
her cruelty, as is the habit of men), he desires more than any- 
thing on earth to make her love him in return, and thinks to do 
so by gratifying her every wish, ignorant, as people in love ever 
are, that by too much adoration he humbles himself in the sight 
of his divinity. 

Mignon, fortunately perhaps for herself, is cold; the beneficent 
Piovidence who awards that attribute to many lovely women 
gives a security to their possessors that no amount of locks and 
bolts could bestow. “ Love laughs at locksmiths;” but a beauti- 
ful icicle laughs at Love — which disconcerts that young gentle- 
man far more. It is very improbable that Mignon, in spite of 
her youth, her loveliness, and her comparative indifference to 
her husband, will ever risk her position and personal comfort for 
an imprudent passion. She has no ardent aspirations, no hunger 
of the heart; to be beautifully dressed, to feel herself the cyn- 
osure of all eyes, to live daintily, are things infinitely more de- 
sirable in her eyes than the uncertain bliss and the certain suf- 
fering that accompany the tender passion. 

Mignon has enjoyed her foreign travel immensely — the utter 
novelty of it, the cheerful bustle of Continental towns, the per- 
petual feast of shop-gazing heightened by the delight of having 
plenty of money to spend, to say nothing of the change from 
being an unconsidered, insignificant person at home to a great 
lady, the object of universal solicitude and attention. 

“And to think I was so near giving it all up!” she has said to 
herself more than once, and a little flutter agitated her breast at 
the recollection of her narrow escape. “ I might have been 
sitting over tea and shrimps in an attic now as Mrs. Oswald 
Carey, or perhaps tea without the shrimps. And I never cared 
two straws for him, either.” 

There is one thing that bores Mignon stupendously, and that 
is Art. 

“ I never want to see a picture again as long as I live,” she re- 
marks, pettishly, to Sir Tristram, on her arrival in the Eternal 
City; “ and as for statues, I hate the very sight of them.” 

This is apropos of his suggesting a visit to the Vatican and 
telling her of tlie treat in store for her in the contemplation of 
its treasures. 

“Hush, my child!” he answers, smiling; “don’t let anyone 
hear you utter such a barbarism.” 

Mignon pouts her adorable mouth and assumes the mutine ex- 
pression that is almost as irresistible as her smile. 

“ I don’t care who hears me,” she exclaims. “I have seen 
Holy Families enough in the last two months to pave London 
with, beside getting the horrors from pictures of every kind of 
torture, to say nothing of the ugly saints and cadaverous 
martyrs of whom I should like to have a bonfire made for Guy 
Fawkes’ Day. And as for the statues ” (with an injured air that 
makes him laugh) “ I wonder you like to take me to see them. 
I don’t think they are nice at all.” , 

The idea of the wonders of all time, that millions have gazed 


100 


MIGNON, 


upon with devout adoration for their transcendent art, not being 
nice is so intensely ludicrous to Sir Tristram that he goes off 
into a peal of laughter, whereat Mignon reddens with dis^ 
pleasure. 

“ I dare say I seem very ignorant to you,” she says, with a 
Parthian glance, “ but you must remember that I am very 
young. You, of course, cannot enter into my feelings.” 

My lady knows the exact joint of the harness where to send 
her shaft, and is a very expert marks woman. 

Her husband winces. 

“ You shall not go anywhere that you do not like, my darling,” 
he answers. “ Go and put on one of your pretty Parisian toilets. 
We will drive in the Pincio, and can take a good look at the 
Colosseum first.” 

This proposition finds favor in Mignon’s eyes; she smiles, and 
runs away to make herself beautiful. Sir Tristram looks after 
her with a sigh. 

There are a good many English in Rome, and among them Sir 
Tristram finds several friends and acquaintances. It is with no 
little pride that he presents his lovely young wife to them, and 
observes the unqualified admiration that she excites. 

Mignon is delighted; life is beginning, she feels — the life for 
which she bartered her beauty. Just now she is inclined to 
think herself no loser by the transaction. If my lady has occa- 
sional fits of temper, she keeps them, as a well-bred woman 
should, for her husband and her maid. No one can be sweeter, 
more angelic, than Mignon, when she likes; and, truth to 
tell, she is not at all ill-tempered. Why indeed should she be, 
with everything her heart can desire (love not being at present 
included among its desires), a magnificent constitution, and per 
feet immunity, both physically and morally, from the pains and 
troubles flesh is heir to ? Her occasional habit of riding rough- 
shod over the feelings of others proceeds more from a lack of 
fine feeling and perception than from absolute cruelty. People 
who are very thick-skinned are not apt to study the shades and 
inflections that may torture more delicately-organized subjects. 
Mignon takes pains to be charming, and succeeds perfectly — 
has not her lovely face already robbed the task of half its diffi- 
culty? She has not the slightest mauvaise honte, and, in the 
majesty of her own beauty, her self-complacency makes her 
feel the equal of a duchess. 

Among the English in Rome are Sir Josias and Lady Clover, 
nee Kitty Fox. What need to say that since her marriage she is 
known to her friends by no other name than that of ‘ ‘ Sweet 
Kitty Clover?” Marriage has not had a sobering effect upon 
the frolicsome little lady; she is quite as arch and full of fun as 
in her maiden days. She has married a man whom (if you were 
a tyro in the world’s ways, and in those ways much more past 
finding out, the ways of a woman), you would pronounce utterly 
unsuited to her, and the last man in the world you would have 
expected her to choose. But if you had qualified yourself to 
judge of the matter by a study of the curious combinations of 
opposite characteristics in the sexes that go to the making of 


MIGNON. 


101 


that exceptional state of bliss, a happy marriage, you would 
have observed that, as a rule, that bliss has fallen to the lot of 
those whose natures are most opposed to each other. 

A witty, brilliant man, married to a woman with the same 
gifts will be far less likely to be happy with her than with one 
who is rather dull, but who has a thorough admiration and 
respect for his talents; and vice versa. A man with a high 
spirit is not the happier for having a wife of the same tempera- 
ment, and so on through almost every phase of character. Cer- 
tainly Miss Kitty’s chief idea in accepting Sir Josias was that he 
would be an excellent match; but the capricious little damsel had 
also a kind feeling for the man whom people wondered at her 
choosing. 

“Kitty, my dear,” Mrs. Stratheden said to her, one day 
soon after the fiancailles were announced, ' ‘ are you quite sure 
that the choice you have made will satisfy you ? Remember 
that, on an average, you can only enjoy society and the advan- 
tages your husband’s money will give you for about four hours 
in the twenty-fom*; there are still the twenty left. For the rest 
of your life, or the greater part of it, you will probably see him 
ten times as often as any other person; is the idea pleasing to 
you?” 

“ My dear, good angel,” returns Miss Kitty, mischievously, 
“ I think that ten times as much of Sir Jo's society as of any- 
body else’s might be apt to pall upon me. He is like good old 
furniture, heavy. But at the same time, you know, I want a 
make-weight for my own lightness. Fancy if I married a mad- 
cap like myself! I know you don’t think so” (more seriously), 
“of course no one does, but really and positively, though he 
is nearly twenty years older than me, and though he is slow 
and matter-of-fact, there is something about him I do like; 
and you and everybody else will see that we shall be very 
happy.” 

At such a long and sensible speech from Miss Kitty, Mrs. 
Stratheden feels encouraged, gives her a kiss and subsequently a 
diamond locket which figures handsomely in the Court Journal 
among the papier-mache trays, card-cases, pen-wipers, and 
flat candelsticks presented on the auspicious occasion of her 
marriage. 

Sir Josias Clover is “ a very good sort of man.” To no one 
could such a designation be more thoroughly applicable. His 
father rose from the ranks, and ended by making a fortune and 
receiving a baronetcy. So the blood in Sir Josias’ veins is a 
good sturdy British red; nor does he ever pretend to himself or 
the world that it is anything else. There is nothing of the 
parvenu about him. His father married late in life the daughter 
of a poor curate; Josias went to Eton and Oxford, and some 
years later, after one or two unsuccessful attempts, became a 
member of the House. He is the reverse of brilliant, but has 
sound common sense and more than ordinary powers of applica- 
tion. He is thoroughly well read, ahd never opens his lips upon 
any subject he is not conversant with. When he does get on his 
legs in the House, he is always listened to with attention. His 


102 


MIGNOK 


constituents are so well satisfied with him that at the last elec- 
tion no one came forward to contest the seat. In appearance he 
is plain and quiet, as far removed from looking vulgar or snob- 
bish as he is from having the air that poetry and tradition as- 
cribe to a duke with eight centuries of Norman blood in his 
veins. He is manly, good-hearted, and humble in his own con- 
ceit; even now that for two months he has been blessed in 
the possession of Kitty, he can scarcely realize his good fortune. 
For he positively adores his little mischievous fairy, with her 
quips, and pranks, and wiles, and, though no one would give 
such a sober middle-aged man credit for it, he is capable of a love 
and a devotion that would make many a young Adonis’ passion 
fly up like a feather in the scale. 

Kitty is aware of it, and as she is strong, she is generous, pro- 
tecting him with a little ostentatious air as delightful to behold 
as a kitten patronizing a Newfoundland. She bewilders him a 
little at times with her intense vitality and fund of spirits, but 
he looks on at it all with stolid benevolence, like the aforesaid 
Newfoundland when the kitten takes liberties. He would rather, 
for instance, that she did not call him Jo and Sir Jo, the abbrevi- 
ation as applied to him being particularly ludicrous; but this, of 
course, is its intense charm for the little madcap, so he e’en lets 
her have her way. He has been weak enough to express to her 
his astonishment at her choice. 

“ Kitty,” he has said, “ how could you possibly, such a little 
fairy as you are, have anything to do with a dull, matter-of-fact, 
middle-aged fellow like myself ? I have no doubt people call us 
Titania and Bottom.” 

“ My dear,” replies the wicked sprite, demurely, “ I am of a 
jealous turn of mind, and you offer me a perfect security. You 
are not handsome nor brilliant. I do not think any woman but 
myself is the least likely to fall in love with you.” 

He lays his hand with an adoring gesture upon her golden 
head. 

My darling,” he says, “ all the loveliest women ever created 
would not be worth one curl of this little head to me.” 

“ Ah!” she returns, with approving patronage, “ a very proper 
frame of mind for a married man. I trust it will last. Now, 
dear, order the carriage, and come and choose me a bonnet at 
Madam Chiffon’s.” 

Mignon and Kitty become friends at once. Lady Bergholt is 
delighted to have a friend of her own age and way of thinking, 
nor is she less pleased to be relieved of the constant attendance 
of Sir Tristram. No more of the Vatican, no more of the Capitol, 
no more cold hands and feet with standing about vast, vaulty 
palaces, staring with wearied vacant e^^es from the dull pictures 
to Murray, and from Murray back to the dull picture». 

“ A good Holy Family. A Holy Family. A boy in a red cap. 
A good Virgin and Child. Two large landscapes with figures. 
A Virgin and Child. A Holy Family. Portrait supposed to be 
Poggio Bracciolini. A flpe male portrait. St. Sebastian. St. 
John preaching in the wilderness. Crucifixion of St. Peter. A 
Holy Family.” 


MIONOK 


103 


After Lady Clover’s arrival, she resolutely refuses to enter 
church, palace, or picture-gallery again: she will hardly even 
be induced to drive round Rome’s environs. Every day she 
calls for Kitty, or Kitty for her, and, beautifully appareled, the 
two charming brides drive in the Pincio, listen to the band, and 
distract the hearts of the young Italians and English who con- 
gregate there and stare at them with no feigned admiration. 
Kitty is in point of real beauty far inferior to Mignon, but there 
is something so vivacious, so piquante and sparkling about her, 
that she comes in for no mean share of the general approbation. 
Kitty is clever in her way, too, and well informed: she speaks 
French perfectly. Mignon does not possess a single accomplish- 
ment, nor does she care to. Sir Tristram had diffidently sug- 
gested when they first came to Rome that she should take lessons 
in singing and French, but “ my lady” repudiated the idea with 
scorn. 

There is no occasion for me to be clever,” she remarked, 
magnificently; it’s all very well for plain v^omen. Besides, I 
have always heard that men hate blue-stockings.” 

So Sir Tristram is fain to leave his lovely wife in her igno- 
rance: she can talk like other women, for in these days elegancy 
and propriety of expression are not necessarily distinguishing 
characteristics of the conversation of people of birth. 

Sir Josias (poor man! his godfathers and godmothers were 
very hard upon him in giving him such a name) — Sir Josias’ 
great delight was to take a quiet walk in the Pincio, and to 
watch, unobserved if possible, the carriage containing the two 
lovely women, one of whom was to his loyal heart the sweetest 
and fairest object in creation. Others might yield the apple to 
Mignon, but not Kitty’s husband. 

“ She is very lovely, of course,” he responded to Kitty’s en- 
thusiastic admiration of her friend; “but ” 

“ But me no buts,” quoth Kitty, imperiously ; “ she is the love- 
liest creature / ever saw ; she is the loveliest creature you ever 
saw. Come, say so, directly!” 

“ But — you. May I not but that but?” asks her husband with 
a quiet smile. 

“ In consideration of the unusual brilliancy of your repartee, 
I excuse you,” replies Mrs. Kitty. “ But don’t let any one else 
hear you say so, or they will be persuading me to shut you up in 
a lunatic asylum.” 

Sir Tristram does not often turn his steps to the park; once or 
tw ice it has made him unconquerably melancholy to see Mignon 
so radiant away from him, nay, so much more radiant away 
from him. And it is absurd, he tells himself, impatiently, to 
see the two old husbands always running after the two young 
wives. Sir Josias is nearly ten years younger than Sir Tristram, 
though, except in age, the older man has every advantage. No, 
he lacks one for which he would exchange a good deal with the 
other. Sir Josias’ willful incomprehensible little wdfe is fond of 
him; and in his most sanguine moments he dares not lay the 
flattering unction to his soul that Mignon feels any affection for 
him. So he betakes himself to the Colosseum and falls into rev- 


104 


MIGNON, 


eries about the dead and gone times when Rome was the em- 
press of the world, or to St. Peter’s, or to the Vatican, where he 
spends most of his time in the Cortile di Belvedere. Sometimes 
he calls on old friends; but the most delightful moment of the 
day is that in which he runs up-stairs and finds Mignon sitting 
over the fire before she dresses for dinner. It is not always 
fraught with pleasure — it is a frightful position for a man, to be 
dying to make love to a woman, with the conviction that she 
will consider it a stupendous bore. The fact of being the fair 
one’s husband and having the right only makes the position 
more painful for a delicate-minded man like Sir Tristram. 
Mignon, not having a delicate mind, cannot of course be touched 
by his forebearance. 

He is longing to get home, but his wife mmt see Naples, and 
they are to stay in Paris on the way back, to which she looks 
forward immensely on account of all the lovely things she in- 
tends to buy there. 

It will be so nice,” she tells Kitty, if we are there together. 
You know all the best places, and, as I can’t talk French, you 
will do everything for me, won’t you?” 

And Kitty promises, nothing loath. Besides she has carte 
blanche from her husband, and intends to be very magnificent 
in the coming season. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites 
in him that folly and green minds look after.” Othello. 

Mignon and Kitty have become so inseparable that it is im- 
possible for the indulgent husbands to think of parting them. 
So it is arranged that they shall all go to Naples together first, 
and then to Paris. 

Mignon has lost much of her interest in Naples since some one 
told her that coral was not becoming to fair people— her desire 
to go there having been stimulated by contemplated purchases 
in that delicate ware. Of Vesuvius and Pompeii she knows lit- 
tle and cares less. Still, being so near, it is the proper thing to 
go there. So the lovely young wives and their staid husbands 
set off together, and the same evening find themselves at a 
hotel on the Chiaja, facing the Bay of Naples. People cannot 
travel together without becoming acquainted with each other’s 
little weaknesses; thus Kitty makes the discovery before^very 
long that Lady Bergholt is rather selfish, and not quite so an- 
gelic as she looks; indeed, her maid has confided to Lady 
Clover’s maid that she has once been called a fool, and once had 
her face slapped, on the severe provocation of pulling “ my 
lady’s” golden locks. Mignon wishes Kitty would not be al- 
ways making fun of everybody and everything. Still, the two 
are as fast friends as ever, and rarely apart. Brides of a few 
months are, as a rule, fond of being left tete-a-tete with their 
husbands, and are apt to be a little jealous of intruders, espe- 
cially of their own sex; but this is not the case with the two in 
question, and they have a perfect security against any rivalry in 


MIONON. IOd 

each other in the small value they place on the conquest of tlu ii* 
lords. 

‘‘ Kitty,” hazards Sir Josias one day, in his quiet way, “ your 
friendship with Lady Bergholt is so very warm that I fear it will 
come to an untimely end.” 

“ Not yet,” replies Kitty, who is perched upon a table, nod- 
ding at him like some wise little bird. 

“ How long is it warranted to last?” 

“ How long ?” (reflectively). “ Oh, until we botli take a fancy 
to the same man.” 

Sir Josias opens his eyes a little wider than usual. 

‘‘ Oh, then you contemplate such a possibility?” 

“ Of course I do ” (demurely). “ Don’t you ?” 

I confess that contingency had not occurred to me,” replies 
Sir Josias, with a shade of stiffness that makes the corners of Ins 
malicious little wife’s mouth twitch. 

‘‘ Well,” proceeds Kitty, “here we are perfectly safe, she is 
not afraid of Sir Tristram falling in love with me, and I (slyly) 
“have every confidence in you, dear; but in Paris, or at all 
events in London, we shall both have many amiable and hand- 
some young men in our train, and ill luck may order it so tha t 
we shall both take a fancy to the same one. Then of course our 
friendship will come to an end.” 

“ Kitty!” expostulates long-suffering Sir Josias, “I think you 
carry your love of joking a little too far.” 

“ Joking!” repeats Kitty, calmly. “ I never was more serious 
in my life. Pray, have you not told me a thousand times that I 
am the loveliest, the most charming creature in the world ?’ 

Sir Josias is silent. 

“ Answer me directly, Jo, if you please” (with a little stamp). 
‘‘ Have you or have you not told me so ?” 

“ And if I have been so foolish, what then?” 

‘ “ Oh, you did not mean it, I suppose?” 

“Yes, I did. But ” 

“You know I hate that word,” says Kitty, tyrannically. 
“ Well, if I am so lovely, and if I am to go into society (I suppose 
you intend me to go in society ?) ” 

“Certainly.” 

“ Do you not suppose that other men besides yourself will fall 
victims to my charms? Every one knows that I have no heart. 
Mignon has less still; but we have vanity,” utters “ my lady ’ 
superbly, “ and some day our vanity will probably cause us tu 
claah ” 

“ Oh!” utters Sir Josias, relieved. “ Still ” 

“If anything, I dislike still more than interrupts Kitty. 
“Jo, dear.” 

“ Well, darling.” 

“ Should you like to kiss me ?” And she purses up her rosebud 
of a mouth in the most inviting manner. 

Sir Josias is about to avail himself of this affectionate invita- 
tion, but he is never very quick in his movements. As he comes 
close up to her, she slips off the table, and, with a wicked little 
j:eal of laughter, escapes through the door. 


106 


MIGNON, 


They have done Naples, liave been to the museum, to the 
church of many steps, to the opera, have inspected the coral - 
shops, have driven up and down the Chiaja and seen pretty 
Princess Marguerite, they have been to Sorrento, Herculaneum, 
Pompeii, have bought basketfuls of flowers from the Neapolitan 
flower-sellers, and been delighted by hearing Santa Lucia sung 
under their windows. The weather has been lovely: they have 
had ten days of golden sunshine and sapphire seas and skies. 
But their hearts are in Paris, the fair ones’ hearts, at least, and 
the husbands have the consoling thought that there they will 
be near home, which both are beginning to long anxiously for. 

They are to return by Florence, Bologna, Genoa, and Nice; a 
friend of Sir Tristram’s has offered to bring his yacht round 
from Naples to Genoa, and take their party from the latter place 
to Nice, wind and weather favoring. The elements are propi- 
tious, and they all agree that this is one of the most charming 
days of the whole tour. There is a sun that makes 3^ou think of 
an English June, though it is only the first week in February, 
the sky is “ Italian,” the waters blue and dancing, not dancing 
enough to give any one an uncomfortable sensation but the maids 
(maids have quite exceptional faculties of being sea-sick), and 
the scenery is lovely. It is a charming drive along the Cornice 
road, with its alternate wild picturesqueness and rich cultivation, 
the bold, precipitous cliffs lashed by surf, the great expanse of 
many-colored sea, blue, purple, rosy-hued, or emerald in the 
varying light, the ruined strongholds standing in bold relief from 
their rocky background, the narrow streets and sharp turns 
round which your vetturino loves, with a wild whoop, to send his 
team full gallop, and did it so happen that another carriage met 
yours at that particular angle, it would be difficult to show cause 
why you should not then and there be launched into eternity. 
And besides the wild grandeur of frowning rocks, of breakers, 
and of Saracen towers, there are groves of sad-colored olives and 
green pines, there are cacti and gigantic aloes, oleanders, cit- 
rons, myrtle, orange-trees and feathery palms. Sometimes j^ou 
come across a little church peeping heavenward out of a cluster 
of cypresses, sometimes a pretentious cathedral rears its head 
proudly from an ancient town; here you may see the remains of 
a Roman bridge, there the decayed palace of some once power- 
ful Italian noble, whose very name is forgotten to-day. But still 
I incline more to the view from the sea; for, if you are not a vic- 
tim to mal de mer, to what scene does not the sea lend beauty 
and grandeur, most of all the heaven-colored Mediterranean ? 

O, fair green -girdled mother of mine, 

Sea that art clothed with the sun and the rain.” 

So sings our grandest Tpoet of to-da\'. What a pity that, with 
his transcendent genius, his divine gift, he has used it so that if 
one quotes his exquisite lines one hesitates to name their author! 

From the deck of the Merveilleuse, Mignon contemplates the 
lovely panorama, whilst the yacht’s owner watches her fur-^ 
tively and thinks “ Idalian Aphrodite” herself could not have 
been more dangerously fair, “ What luck some men have!" hei 


MIGNON, 


107 


ejaculates, the object of his envy being at this moment Sir 
Tristram. Mignon is looking at the range of mountains, now 
and again snow-capped at the wooded hills, the cliffs crimson 
and purple in the sunshine, the many tongued sea oh, so blue, 
so blue, lapping against tiieir base, and creeping up the bays to 
the feet of little villages nestling against a background of olives 
and pines, with here and there a church standing erect, whose 
faint call to prayer is borne to them over the glittering water, 
and the gloomy, frowning towers that once were directly needed 
against the lawless crews who sailed under the black flag. Even 
Mignon, with so narrow a soul for beauty, finds the scene pass- 
ing fair; and Kitty is so enthralled that she is almost silent. 

It is moonlight when they are put on shore at Nice. Four 
days later they are in Paris. Mignon is delighted, enchanted; 
no matter how her companions croak and bemoan the altera- 
tions since the war. She looks out of her room in the Hotel 
Bristol on the Place Vendome; how should she be shocked by 
the absence of the grand column that she never knew? the 
Tuileries is a picturesque ruin to her, not a heart-breaking sight, 
as heart-breaking almost to English as to French eyes; the 
grievous change in the Bois cannot affect one who knew it not 
in the days of its glory. There are the shops — the big diamonds 
and pearls in the Rue de la Paix, the fabulous bonbons, the bou- 
quets of exquisite flowers thrice, nay, five times the size of En- 
glish bouquets, the silversmiths’ windows piled up with what 
look at a little distance like thousands of silver eggs, but prove 
to be the bowls of myriad spoons, the fan, glove, and lace-shops, 
the wonders of the Palais Royal. “ My lady,” too, has a taste for 
dainty dishes, and enjoys extremely the delicious little dinners 
at restaurants of note. The fact that dinners there since the 
war cost a small fortune is also, or would be if she knew it, a 
matter of perfect indifference to her, as, with her accession to 
wealth her ideas have expanded until they are nothing less than 
magnificent. Sir Tristram is rich and generous; it has not oc- 
curred to him yet to question any fancy of Mignon’s, if its grati- 
fication only depends upon money. 

They have been in Paris only three days. Kitty and Mignon 
are driving up the Champs Elysees toward the Bois, when sud- 
denly Lady Clover utters an exclamation and calls to the coach- 
man to stop. ! 

“Raymond, by all that’s wonderful!” she cries, as the car- 
riage stops, and that very handsome young man disengages his 
arm from another man’s and comes toward her. 

“ Kitty, by all that’s charming!” he replies, taking off his hat. 

“ I beg ten thousand pardons, Lady Clover ” 

Therewith his eyes wander to her companion, and as he recog- 
nizes the lovely face a slight color deepens in his own, a faint 
pink responds to it from Mignon’s. 

“ Lady Bergholt, Mr. L’Estrange — I am not sure if you know 
each other,” exclaims Kitty. “ Have you met before ?” 

“ Once,” he answers, with a meaning smile; and the color 
deepens still more on Mignon’s peach-like cheek. 


lOH 


J\JfOSON. 


“ What are you doing? Wlio are you with ? Would you not 
like to come with us?” asks Lady Clover in a breath. 

“ I should, immensely— oh, I can leave him. We were only 
liaving a stroll,*' answers Raymond, in inverse order to the ques- 
tions propounded; and thereupon, with the inconsiderateness 
that Englishmen are wont to exhibit to one another, and which 
is never resented when there is a lady in the case, Raymond 
mounts into the caiTiage as the servant opens the door for him, 
and gives an unceremonious nod over his shoulder to the friend 
who is lounging in the distance, trying to look unconscious, and 
wondering who the deuce those two lovely women are who looked 
so pleased to see L’Estrange. 

As Raymond sits opposite to Lady Bergholt, three lines of his 
favorite poet come to his mind: 

“ Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, 

As a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips 

With splendid summer and perfume and pride.” 

“ And pray, sir,” cries Kitty, “what brings you here, when 
you ought to be hunting the wily fox ?*’ 

“ I got a fall a fortnight ago,” he answers, “ and the brute 
rolled on my leg. No bones broken, but I sha’n’t be able to grip 
a horse again tMs season. So there was nothing for it but Lon- 
don or Paris.” 

“ Poor boy!” says Lady Clover, patronizingly. “ Well, what’s 
the news? What have you been doing ever since October? I 
have often pictured you to myself broken-hearted since I mar- 
ried.’' 

“ So I was; so I am still — inconsolable. The only thing that 
has at all raised my spirits has been thinking how frightfully 
Sir Josias must be boring you.” 

“ Not in the least. He is a most amusing companion,” retorts 
Kitty, mendaciously. “ And so good-tempered. We have never 
had a word — not once; and traveling is the most trying ordeal 
for husbands and wives that I can imagine. My dear Raymond, 
picture to yourself what we should have been after three months’ 
foreign travel together.” 

Raymond and Kitty were contemporaries in petticoats; so this 
franchise may be considered pardonable. 

“My dear, we should have adored each other as at the first 
day,” returns Raymond, imperturbably. “ Pray don’t give Lady 
Bergholt any unfair impressions about me; the sweetness of my 
temper is a proverb in our part of the country.” 

“ Then don’t risk it by marrying. ’ 

“ 1 don’t intend to. I never saw a woman I wanted to marry 
— present company of course excepted.” 

He is speaking to Kitty, but his eyes steal one furtive glance 
at Mignon. 

“ People who tell stories ought to have good memories,” cries 
Lady Clover, “ Why, it is not two years since you were button* 
holing every one about your hopeless passion for Mrs. Strath- 
eden.” 

“ Ah, yes,” he returns, that is true; thanks for reminding 
pae» I haye had a good many companions in woe therej Rhc 


MIGNON, 


109 


has another broken heart to answer for since I last saw you> 
By the way, you remember my friend Vyner’s accident?” 

“When Mrs. Stratheden behaved v/itli such heroism? Of 
course he fell in love with her. Why, my dear Raymond, I 
could have told you that would happen at the time,” says Kitty, 
with a little air of superior wisdom. “ Well, I suppose his heart 
is mended again by now — like yours.” 

“ Indeed it is not,” answers Raymond. ‘‘ I never saw a fellow 
take a thing so to heart. He has lost about two stone, and 
doesn’t seem to care for anything that he used to. He rides 
awfully hard, too: sometimes I think he wants to break his 
neck.” 

“Who fsthis fascinating Mrs. Stratheden?” asks Lady Berg- 
holt, with an unconscious touch of pique. Somehow, it jars 
upon her to hear other women praised. 

“ Who is she?” repeats Raymond. “ I was going to say the 
most charming woman in the world. I will say almost the most 
charming.” And his eyes accentuate his meaning. 

They are making the “ tour du lac,” going, as is the custom, 
at a foot pace. Raymond is conscious of the attention excited 
by his fair vis-a-vis; it pleases his vanity to be seen in company 
with two lovely, perfectly dressed women, for women I must 
by courtesy call these two girls, both of whom are only just 
eighteen. Mr. L’Estrange comes in for a considerable share of 
attention from the fair, but he has no eyes for any but the one 
he is with. 

At the door of their hotel they meet the two husbands. Sir 
Tristram greets Raymond heartily, and asks him to dine with 
them. Sir Josias treats him with undemonstrative politeness. 

“ Pray, my dear,” he asks his wife, a little later, “ do you 
begin to feel your friendship for Lady Bergholt on the wane 
yet?” 

Clever little Kitty understands him at once. 

“ Why, you goose,” she says, “ I look upon Raymond as my 
brother.” 

“ Then you have no objection to his falling in love with your 
friend ?” 

“ Not the slightest.” 

“ That is fortunate,” observes Sir Josias, dryly. 

“ It will be ‘ diamond cut diamond,’ ” laughs Kitty. “ I don’t 
know which has the least heart or the most vanity.” 

Raymond L’Estrange is susceptible; his principles have been 
slightly impaired by two seasons in London, and by a course of 
reading which, however interesting and instructive, is hardly 
wholesome for a very young man. Alfred de Musset and Swin- 
burnehe swears by; Rousseau, Balzac, Gauthier, Feydeau, and 
Arsene Houssaye he has read with avidity; from Rochefoucauld 
and Lord Chesterfield he has culled some useful hints; it is not 
therefore to be supposed that, when he finds himself in danger 
of becoming deeply interested in his friend’s wife, he should 
hasten to put the sea or some impossible distance between her 
and himself. On the contrary, he passes as much time as pos- 
JsibJe in her company, and the fair one is eminently gratified by 


110 


MIGNOK 


his attentions. Raymond gives the whole party a recherche 
little dinner at the Cafe Anglais; he takes a box for them to see 
Schneider; he sends to both ladies the most exquisite bouquets. 

‘‘My dear Raymond,” says wicked Kitty one day when they 
are all alone, “ what a fortune these little attentions to me are 
costing you ! I really did not know you were still so fond of me. 
Pray be careful not to excite poor Sir Jo’s suspicions. It is very 
prudent, though, of you always to treat Mignon in the same way, 
and makes a most excellent blind.” 

Raymond’s handsome mouth curves into a smile. 

“ What a witch you are, Kitty! But really she is adorable, is 
she not ? What an awful shame her marrying a man so much 
older than herself! I’m awfully fond of Sir Tristram; he’s a 
thundering good fellow; still, thirty years is a horrible, an un- 
natural disparity. Oh, I beg your pardon, I forgot.” 

“You need not beg my pardon,” retorts Lady Clover, with 
some tartness. “Jo is only nineteen years and eleven months 
older than I am; and I would not have married a young man for 
the world. You think of nothing but yourselves, and are as 
fickle as— as ” 

“A woman,” suggests Raymond. 

“ No, sir, not at all. Women are not fickle; they know their 
own minds, and once they choose a man, if they are worth any- 
thing, they stick to him — which you young men don’t.” 

“Charming for Sir Josias!” sneers Raymond. “You and 
Lady Bergholt seem tremendous friends. Does she share your 
sentiments V” 

‘ ‘ If she does not she ought to. She owes everything to Sir 
Tristram.” 

“ I don’t think there is much obligation,” retorts Raymond. 
“ She gives him her exquisite self in return.” 

Kitty makes a little scornful gesture. Looking at it from a 
woman’s point of view, she thinks the return a very indifferent 
one. 

“ I see you are very far gone,” she remarks; “ but I am happy 
to tell you, my dear, that you are wasting your time. If I were 
not sure of it, I should not think it right to encourage you by al- 
lowing you to go about everywhere with us.” 

This, delivered with an air, by a little arch flirt of eighteen, is 
too much for Raymond’s gravity; and he laughs outright. 

“May Lady Clover long practice what she preaches!” he 
says. 

Meantime, Sir Tristram has not been unobservant of the effect 
produced by his wife on Raymond. To say he has not felt a 
pang of jealousy at seeing these two handsome heads whispering 
together, would be to say what every one would feel to be an 
absurdity. But he has said this to himself : 

“ She is beautiful; no man can look upon her without feeling 
admiration, perhaps love for her. I must make up my mind 
either to shut her up and let no one see her, and in so doing 
secure our mutual wretchedness, and perhaps drive her into in- 
fidelity. The other course is to put no restraint upon her— to let 
her have as much admiration and enjoyment as her own beauty 


MIGNON. 


Ill 


and my money can command. I think ” (sighing) ambition is 
a stronger motive power in her than love, and in the long run it 
will be better for me if it is so. Raymond is the first; but am I 
to suppose he will be the last ? How Fred will gird at me for 
my folly! I suppose I have been a fool, but I don’t know that if 
I could I would undo the work of the last six months.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ The mare with a flowing tail composed an eighth species of woman. 
These are they who have little regard for their husbands; who pass away 
their time in dressing, bathing, and perfuming; who throw their hair into 
the nicest curls, and trick it up with the fairest flowers and garlands. A 
woman of this species is a very pretty thing for a stranger to look upon, 
but very detrimental to the owner, unless he be a king or prince, who 
takes a fancy to such a toy.” Simonides. 

It is the first week in May. The fashionable papers have duly 
chronicled that Sir Tristram and Lady Bergholt have arrived at 
No. — Eaton Square for the season. They have spent the last 
two months at the Warren, which has been transformed into a 
little paradise. Sir Tristram thoroughly enjoys an English spring 
in the country after his long absence, but Mignon, who has spent 
nearly every spring of her life in sight of the hills, and dales, 
and woods her lord finds so charming, is impatient to begin her 
life in London. Sir Tristram has decided that she is not to see 
Bergholt until after the season, by which time the various altera- 
tions he has planned will be completed and a proper staff of 
servants sent down. My lady has been very gracious to her 
mother and sisters, and even to her father. She no longer feels 
any grudge against him now that her marriage has turned out 
so well. Still, that is no thanks to him, she tells herself. At her 
husband’s suggestion, she has brought each member of the 
family a handsome present from abroad, not forgetting the old 
housekeeper, her former nurse. 

Mignon is very sweet and gracious to everyone: her foot is on 
the necks of her people: they vie with each other in attentions 
and care for her. At first this triumphant home-coming is im- 
mensely gratifying to her ladyship, but she soon wearies of it 
after she has exhibited her lovely toilets, her jewels, the 
treasures she has collected in her travels. There is no (I^ascine, 
no Pincio, no Chiaja, no Bois in which to display her beauty 
and her fine clothes of an afternoon; she misses the admiration 
of many eyes, and finds driving up and down steep hills and 
looking at lovely views extremely wearisome and monotonous, 
in spite of her handsome carriage and liveries. She yawns, 
reads countless novels, and is perpetually entreating her husband 
to take her to London when he goes up for the day on business; 
but he puts her off with excuses; the truth is, he does not want 
her to be seen until she breaks with fitting state upon the Lon 
don world in all her loveliness. She longs after Kitty, who is at 
home at Elmor, a charming old place which Sir Josias’ father 
bought twenty years ago from a bankrupt nobleman. Mignon 
wishes she were at BerghoJt: she would be near Kitty and— Mr. 


112 


MIGNOK 


L’Estrange. It would be pleasant having him to come in and 
chat with and flatter her. Here there is literally no one; even 
poor Oswald Carey has gone off to India— Oswald, her first 
victim. 

“ Pooh!’^ thinks Mignon: “ he was nothing to be proud of I” 

At Easter, Gerry comes to the Warren, looking so handsome 
and in such spirits, so grateful to Sir Tristram, so full of love 
and admiration for his beautiful sister. “Oh, Yonnie! what a 
clipper you have grown!” he says. “ How you will take the 
shine out of some of them this season!” He asks a thousand 
questions: who is to present her; what she will wear; if she is 
to have a box at the opera. Mignon has not thought about the 
opera, and forthwith asks the question of Sir Tristram: she has 
not the slightest hontCy true or false, in asking for anything she 
fancies. 

“ My darling, you would find it a great bore. You shall have 
a box as often as you care to go, but we shall probably dine out 
a good deal, and it is hardly worth while taking one so late in 
the opera season. And I don’t think you are very enthusiastic 
about music. Don’t you remember how you yawned at the 
opera in Naples ?” 

“ Oh, that was different,” pouts Mignon. “ There were no 
people and no dresses there one cared to see.” 

“ Well, my love, if you care as much for it as you think you 
will, I promise you a box for next season.” 

The subject drops; but Mignon feels rather aggrieved. In her 
idea it is an important part in the role of a grande dame to have 
her box at the opera. 

The two dull months are over now — months that have been 
glorious with sunshine, and whose sudden showers have turned 
every twdg into a jeweled scepter, months when the birds have 
poured their thrilling music from every bush and shrub and 
tree, months when Nature has sown every bank and hedge-row 
with many-colored wild flowers, and lavish of her sweets, her 
beauties, her melodies, has in the joy of her perennial youth, 
shared them freely with her lovers. But Mignon is not one of 
these. 

Sir Tristram and Lady Bergholt have arrived in town. Mignon 
is in a state of mind that halts between rapture and terror; she 
is to be presented next week. Rapture, because she is to be 
presented by a duchess, because the great man -milliner, having 
himself seen her and observed her beauty in Paris, has con- 
fectioned her the loveliest presentation toilet that even his 
artistic mind is capable of; it is of the sheeniest satin, the most 
ethereal tulle, the most graceful, pure white ostrich- feathers, 
and so exquisitely draped and arranged one might imagine that 
the mantle of a Greek sculptor had fallen on the shoulders of 
Mr. Z. Sir Tristram has given her a parure of diamonds, for 
which Mignon has kissed him voluntarily for the first time in her 
life. He feels himself amply repaid. So much for my lady’s 
rapture. Now for her terror. She is entirely ignorant how to 
acquit herself in the presence of royalty. It is very easy for her 
husband to say, “ But, my love, it is the simplest thing in the 


MTGNON, 


lie 


world. You e^ive your card to tlie lord chamberlain, and then 
you courtesy and kiss her majesty’s hand, courtesy to the prin- 
cesses, and get out of the way as soon as you can.” Mignon 
would like to call in the assistance of Miss Leonora Gea ry ; but 
her husband laughs at her. “Wait till Kitty comes,” he says; 
“if I have not told you enough, she will be able to give you 
every renseignement.'' 

“ What is that ?” asks Mignon.* 

“ I beg your pardon, my dear. That is a French word, rather 
expressive, I think, meaning information, particular. By the 
way, I wish you spoke French like Kitty; it is so desirable for a 
woman who goes much into society. You know, darling, it is 
not too late yet.” 

Mignon “ tiptilts” her nose (charming euphemism, into which 
the poet-laureate has transmuted a vulgar idiom). She has a 
rooted opinion that knowledge detracts from beauty, and has no 
ambition to put any more learning into her lovely head than is 
at present there. 

Kitty comes to the rescue. She arrives in town three days 
after Mignon, who feels a little jealous because her friend has a 
town house of her own. The meeting is most affectionate. 
Lady Clover has come to lunch in Eaton Square, and need I say 
that immediately afterward there is a display of the importation 
from Paris? 

“ I expect to die of spleen when I see your court dress,” says 
Kitty. “ I saw that wretch Z. took an especial interest in you. 

I was consigned to his ladies-in- waiting without a look. Still, 
my dress is very pretty; though I dare say I shall despise it 
when I have seen yours.” 

When it is unfolded, she looks at it with clasped hands, and 
such an expression in her eyes as a sculptor might wear looking 
for the first time upon the statue of which Byron wrote: 

“ All that ideal beauty ever blessed 

The mind with in its most unearthly mood. 

When each conception w’as a heavenly guest — 

A ray of immoitality.” 

Certes Mrs. Kitty never stood with bated breath and rapt eyes 
over the Apollo Belvedere as she is standing now. 

“ What a shame!” she utters, at last, “ wlien you are so lovely 
already!” 

No man could have paid Mignon such a compliment. The 
“realized dream” of Mr. Z. having been put away, and the 
friends left alone, Mignon enters eagerly upon the subject of 
her presentation. 

“ Oh, Kitty, do please tell me exactly what to do. Sir Tris- 
tram has only given me the vaguest idea.” 

“ Well, my dear, first and foremost, you are not to rub your 
nose on her majesty’s hand.” 

“ As if I should!” utters Mignon, aggrieved. 

“You will be very clever if you don’t, without a great deal of 
practice. It sounds delightfully easy to kiss any one’s hand; but 
just try it under the attendant circumstances. Put your arm 
out nearly a yard in front of your body, courtesy as low as you 


MIGNON, 




114 


do in the lancers, and kiss the queen’s hand at the same time — 
tliis with four yards’ length of satin trailing behind you, a bou- 
(|uet, a handkerchief, and a glove (be sure you don’t forget 
to take your glove off) in the other hand, and the most awful 
feeling of nervousness you ever experienced in your life — and if 
you acquit yourself to your own satisfaction without a great deal 
of practice, you will be more than mortal. AVhen I think what 
her majesty must suffer from the untrained osculations of Mes- 
daines Jones, Brown, and Robinson!” And wicked Kitty laughs 
a ringing peal. “ Come now, begin! I will be the queen.” And 
Lady Clover takes up a position majestically at the top of the 
room. Mignon goes energetically through her drill. Sir Tris- 
tram , hearing the sound of his wife’s musical laughter, comes in 
and finds the lesson proceeding. 

The day arrives. The two brides are to meet at the Palace, 
for it is not to be supposed they are going to crush their lovely 
dresses by sitting in one carriage. Besides, each wishes to dis- 
play her handsome carriage and liveries. If they have sold 
themselves, they wish the world to know they have fetched a 
good price. 

Mignon looks — lovely? Oh, poor hackneyed \vord, that has 
to do duty for the fairest fair, and for many ordinary things be- 
sides, let me hasten to find adverbs wherewith to enrich you. 
Supremely, exquisitively, transcendently lovely. Yet I am not 
satisfied. 

Her whole family have come to see her dressed. Mignon 
thought it would be rather a bore; but Sir Tristram made a point 
of inviting them. Even they, in whose sight she has lived all 
her life, marvel at her. Sir Tristram feels the proudest man in 
England as he squeezes himself into an infinitesimal space in the 
carriage, not to endanger the clouds that surround his divinity. 
It is only one o’clock when they take their place in the rank; but 
it is a lovely day, and neither the occupants of the carriages nor 
the horses are likely to take cold. The sun shines upon Mignon 
and her diamonds, but even a May sun at noon-day can find no 
flaw or speck in that perfect skin. 


“Nothing frayed 

The sun’s large kiss on the luxurious hair. 

Her beauty was new color to the air, 

And music to the silent many birds. 

Love was an -hungered for some perfect words 
To praise her with.” 

The British public is long-suffering, but it is not well-bred. 
It thinks it no shame to stare and gape round the carriage of a 
beautiful woman or a celebrity, to make its remarks in a dis- 
tinctly audible voice, nay, even to point with its Anger. “ Oh, 
my ! Polly, look ’ere! ’Ere’s a lovely young lady! Well, I never! 
she beats the lot! Look at her dimins! I suppose the gent’s 
her pa.” 

It is not on account of the last remark that Sir Tristram asks 
Mignon whether she will like the blinds down, for there is a 
regular mob round the carriage; but Lady Bergholt declines, 


MIGNON. 


115 


E robably on the principle that it pleases them and doesn’t hurt 
er.” 

Kitty is awaiting her friend impatiently in the uncloaking- 
room. She, too, looks charming, but beside Mignon she is only 
like a star to the moon. 

‘'Come, my dear, we shall be frightfully late!” she cries, im- 
patiently; and Mignon follows her, looking like a beautiful swan 
in the water y not “on a turnpike road.” She is fairly dazzled. 
The uniforms, the beef-eaters, the gentlemen-at-arms, the dia- 
monded dowagers, present to her unaccustomed eyes so gorge- 
ous a kaleidoscope that her brain is in a whirl; she hardly hears 
the gay nonsense Lady Clover is whispering to her. 

“ Look at poor Jo! did you ever see such a figure ? Poor dear! 
he has not had his uniform on lately, and has got fat in the 
meantime. There was not time to have it let out, and it took 
two men to button it. I expect to hear it burst with a loud re- 
port every moment; he is nearly black in the face now. I have 
offended his mother for life. She expected to present me, though 
she has not been to court for years, and was going to make an 
effort on my account. I don’t want to be unkind, but really Jo 
and his mother together would have been too much. Picture to 
yourself, mj dear, a mother-in-law in brown moire and cork- 
screw ringlets, and collar-bones that remind you of a shoulder of 
mutton after a large family has dined off it. Jo was rather 
hurt, but he is so sensible. I said to him, ' Don’t you think, dear, 
after calm and dispassionate refiection, that it is quite sufficient 
trial for me to go with you in the uniform of a colonel of volun- 
teers, without the maternal moire and ringlets and collar-bones ?’ 
He saw it at once. There ” (nodding and smiling to some one in 
the distance), “ there is Lady de Vyne, who presents me; is she 
not magnificent-looking ? There is Eaymond, too, in attendance 
upon his mother. How handsome he looks in his yeomanry 
dress! she makes a point of coming once in three years, and it 
always knocks her up for a month.” 

‘ ‘ Who is that elegant woman so exquisitely dressed ?” asks 
Lady Bergholt, as Kitty kisses the tips of her fingers to a lady 
in the distance. 

“ That is Mrs. Stratheden. No matter where she goes, she is 
nearly always the most distinguished and the best-dressed 
woman in the room.” 

Mignon feels a shade disappointed. She has taken a sort of 
dislike to Olga without knowing her, and feels a desire to depre- 
ciate her; it is the impossibility of doing this that chagrins 
her. 

But she soon recovers her equanimity. All eyes within range 
are turned upon her; people are asking who she is; there is not 
the slightest doubt that amidst that brilliant throng she is the 
undisputed belle. Raymond is dying to get to her; but there is 
a wall of tulle, satin, brocade, and diamonds between them. 
His handsome face wears a decided frown, and he is inclined to 
be pettish with his poor mother. 

“ It is going to be a frightful crush,” whispers Kitty, looking 
ov^r her shoulder and seeing the gentleman-at-arms at the la^t 


116 


MIGN01\^. 


barrier courteously but firmly refusing admission to a bevy of 
fair ones intent upon getting into the already crowded rooms. 
‘'The room before the throne-room will be a bear-garden. I 
tremble for our dresses!” And when she gets there, Mignon 
finds, to her cost, that a titled and well-born crowd, arrayed in 
purple and fine linen, can push as hard and get as hot as a crowd 
consisting of more vulgar elements, and not keep their tempers 
half so well, either. 

Meantime, during the long hours of waiting, she amuses her- 
self by looking about her, at the pictures, the brocade hangings, 
out in the garden; but she is getting impatient and pale with 
nervousness. Three o’clock strikes; the queen, with the punctu- 
ality that is the courtesy of royalty, has taken up her position; 
there is a short hush of excited expectancy whilst the privileged 
few who have the entree are sailing leisurely into the throne - 
room, without confusion or crowding, very much as if they 
were going in to dinner. Now the ropes are withdrawn. There 
is a rush forward, and the brilliant stream, like pent-up water 
let loose, floods through the open space, and Mignon and Kitty 
are swept along with it. There is really plenty of room in those 
spacious saloons, if the fair throng would take it quietly; but 
each one is afraid of missing her majesty, and treads eagerly 
upon the satin heels in front. Mignon feels her exquisite dress, 
that was like a puff of thistle-down an hour ago, squeezed and 
crushed around her, herself jostled with scant ceremony, and is 
almost ready to cry with mortification. 

“Now,” says Kitty, as they reach the corridor that precedes 
the throne-room, “ follow me, and do as I do. Don’t look at 
yourself in the glass on the left, because the men will be looking 
at you from the other side. And be sure you don’t tread on my 
train.” 

With these injunctions she lets down her train for the pages 
to arrange, and sweeps on. Calm, self-possessed Mignon shivers 
like an aspen as the lord chamberlain reads her name. She is 
conscious of an encouraging smile from a gracious lady, she 
just manages to kiss the royal hand, and then, oblivious of 
courtesies to the princesses, and of the injunction not to turn 
her back upon them, she turns and flies, whilst an elderly gen- 
tleman rushes breathlessly after her with her train. She is im- 
mediately joined by Sir Tristram, who, having appeared at the 
levee two days before, has only come m attendance upon his 
lovely wife. Mignon leans upon his arm with a delightful feel- 
ing of protection quite new to her; then Raymond comes up, 
and a host of her husband’s friends are asking to be introduced 
to her, and she comes to the conclusion that it is most delightful 
— when it is all over. 

Mrs. Stratheden approaches. She is very cordial without 
being gushing. She thinks Lady Bergholt almost the loveliest 
creature she has ever seen; and there is no one more heartily ap- 
preciative of beauty in her own sex than Olga. 

“I want you and Sir Tristram to dine with me unceremoni- 
ously to-morrow,” she says to Mignon, “if you are disengaged. 
T^ady Clover and her husband, and Rayinond ami Mrs, L’Es- 


MlomN. lit 

trange have promised to come. We shall be quite a Blankshire 

party. 

Mignon, without even consulting Sir Tristram by a glance, an* 
swers that they are happy to accept, but in a tone so glacial that 
Mrs. Stratheden is chilled, and Sir Tristram feels both surprised 
and annoyed. Lady Bergholt turns to speak to Raymond in a 
manner that seems to intimate, ' ‘ The audience is at an end,’’ 
and Olga is soon the center of a more appreciative crowd. 

‘‘ Is she not lovely ?” Raymond asks, with enthusiasm, of Mrs. 
Stratheden, a little later, and Olga replies: 

Most lovely.” 

But r says Raymond. “I thought your tone implied a 
but.” 

“ On the contrary,” answers Olga. “ There can be no but in 
the matter. She is almost, if not quite, the most lovely creature 
I ever saw.” 

“ Mignon,” says Sir Tristram, as they are rolling swiftly home- 
ward, “ I am sure you did not intend it, but your manner to 
Mrs. Stranheden was not very gracious.” 

“Really?” utters Mignon, coldly. 

“ She is one of the greatest friends I have,” pursues Sir Tris- 
tram — “the last person in the world I should wish you to be 
cool to.” 

Lady Bergholt does not reply. Already even, and despite her 
own transcendent beauty, she is jealous of Olga. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ Let no flower of the spring pass by us. Let us crown ourselves with 
rosebuds before they be ^7ithered.” Wisdom of Solammi. 

The gates have swung open for Mignon, and she has entered 
the land of enchantment. This time last year she was a little 
rustic in a cotton gown and a straw hat, lying on the daisied 
grass under a big tree, and ambitioning nothing more than the 
undivided possession of her neighbor’s strawberries, and now she 
is a queen of society, one of the most beautiful, most admired 
women in London. She plunges eagerly into the vortex; the 
^vhirl of it leaves her not a moment to think: it is all novelty, 
excitement, triumph. 

In the morning, if she is not engaged wuth dressmakers and 
milliners, she sits in the Row; thence she goes to a luncheon* 
party or has friends at home, thence shopping or to a reception 
or concert, then for a turn in the park, then home to dress for 
a dinner-party or the opera, then to one or more balls, then 
home, tired out, to sleep soundly until ten o’clock next morning. 
Sir Tristram has a large acquaintance; he has always been 
popular; and now, having a lovely wife who is very much the 
fashion, invitations pour in upon him thick and fast. Mignon 
has hardly time to exchange a word with her husband— a cir- 
cumstance that in no wise afflicts her. She has even left off ask- 
ing him if she may have this or that thing she fancies, but gives 
herself carte blanche for her most extravagant whims. Al- 
though he goes with her to every entertainment, she is sur- 


118 


MIGNOK 


rounded by a crowd of other men, and if alone with him for a 
moment she takes the opportunity to shut her lips and eyes, to 
recruit herself from the incessant strain upon them. 

She no longer regrets the box at the opera; she only cares to 
go on Saturday nights, and then the music bores her, tliough it 
is pleasant to sit in front of the box and have tliree-fourths of 
the glasses in the house directed at her, and to be visited be- 
tween the acts by her most fashionable men friends. Sir Tris- 
tram is merged into Lady Bergholt’s husband : he is the 
proprietor of a lovely woman, and is therefore supposed to be 
satisfied with the fact, and expected to make way for every 
other man who wants to talk to or make love to her. My lady 
accepts all the adulation offered her as a tribute due to heV 
charms. If a man becomes, or pretends to become, serious, she 
laughs in his face with bewitching impertinence, and as likely 
as not makes open fun of him to his friends — any exposition of 
the tender passion being to her only matter for ridicule. 

She likes to be adored, she prefers a baronet to a commoner, 
and a lord to a baronet, but as to devoting herself particularly to 
one man, to the prejudice and alienation of others, such a thing 
is not to be thought of. Mignon’s delight is to have a crowd 
round her, each vying with the other for her smiles, whilst other 
women look on, half enviously, half admiringly. Men who 
boast that they “ never waste their time ” are fain to detach 
themselves from her train. But not to run after a w^oman who 
is the rage, is a sacrifice of vanity that these sheep of fashion, 
with whom it is a tradition to follow their leader, are incapa- 
ble of. 

Raymond, who had dreamed dreams and seen visions of a ro- 
mantic passion, terminating in “ the world well lost” for one, if 
not both, is goaded into madness by Mignon’s treatment of him. 
It is almost a death-blow to his vanity to know that he has only 
been a pis-aller, to find himself treated with utter indifference, 
to have his smiles, his frowns, his sulks, the absences with which 
he punishes himself in the hope of punishing her, appar- 
ently unnoticed by the object of his passion. If he is 
sentimentally inclined. Lady Bergholt laughs him to scorn 
—perhaps holds him up to public ridicule; if he is moody 
and cross, she yawns and tells him openly that he is an insuffer- 
able nuisance. A thousand times a week he resolves never to see 
or speak to her again, but finds himself unable to keep liis vow. 
If ever there was a woman fitted to revenge the wrongs of her 
sex on the other, it is Mignon. She makes many friends among 
women, from the remorseless snubs she gives to men: “ they 
can’t really like her, when she says such atrocious things to 
them,” her fair friends think. 

It is a June morning. Lady Bergholt is tired of sitting in 
state in her carriage: there is not a particle of shade from the 
ardent rays of the sun, and — my lady rather wishes to exhibit a 
very ethereal toilet of gaze de Chambery and Valenciennes 
that only arrived from Paris last night. Kitty, looking lovely 
on a spirited little bay, has gone down the Row, and Mrs. Strath- 
eden, perfectly turned out as usual, and as pale and cool as if 


MIGNON. 119 

there was no blazing sun overhead, has stopped a moment in 
passing. 

“I wish I rode! it’s a great shame I haven’t a horse,” says 
IMignon to her husband, with a pout. 

As soon as you can ride, my darling, you shall have one,” 
he replies; “but you would not like to practice here, and you 
are not up early enough in the morning to ride before the crowd 
comes. When we get to Bergholt you shall begin; but people 
don’t ride like Kitty and Olga in a day.” 

“ Olga!” repeats Mignon, “tiptilting” her nose in a way not 
unusual to her: “you seem to be on very familiar terms with 
her.” Like many women who allow themselves very great 
latitude with men. Lady Bergholt resents the slightest familiar- 
ity between her husband and a woman. 

“ My dear child, I knew her when she was in short frocks.” 

“ That must have been some time ago,” sneers Mignon, long- 
ing to disparage, but finding it difficult. “ Olga! such an out- 
landish name, too!” 

Sir Tristram smiles mischievously. 

“ ‘ People who live in glass-houses,’ you know,” he says. “ Of 
the two I am afraid your name would carry off the palm for 
outlandishness. ” 

Mignon reddens at having fallen into her own pit. 

“ Every one else has ponies,” she remarks, discontentedly. 

“Well, you shall learn to drive, too, at Bergholt,” says her 
doting husband , indulging himself with a lover-like thought of 
the pleasure it would give him to teach her. “ But on a hot 
morning to hold pulling horses and sit in a broiling sun is not, 
you will find, the most agreeable pastime in the world, charm- 
ing as the combined effect of thoroughbred steppers and a 
lovely charioteer may be.” 

“It is broiling enough sitting here,” says Mignon; whose se- 
renity is evidently somewhat ruffled this morning, I imagine 
because Lord Threestars has passed without stopping to speak 
to her. “ Let us get out and sit under a tree.” 

So they descend from the barouche, and my lady sweeps 
her gauze and laces down the dusty path. She attracts great 
attention, and would still more, only, unfortunately, she hap- 
pens to be walking behind an actress more noted for her toilets 
and jewels than for her dramatic talent. 

It is not long before Lord Threestars joins them. 

“Simply perfect! Z.’s last?” he whispers, knowing that a 
compliment to her dress is, if anything, more esteemed by a 
woman than one to herself. “ By the way, are you going to the 
queen’s ball to-night ?” 

“Of course,” answers Mignon, with not very well-feigned 
nonchalance; and Sir Tristram winces. He knows what a man 
like Lord Threestars is likely to think of her affectations of 
grande dame — affectations which, being evolved from the inner 
consciousness of one not born to the purple, must of necessity 
be unlike what they would simulate. 

“I shall not ask you to dance,” pursues Lord Threestars. 
“ Dancing there is next to impossible, and would only crush your 


120 


MIQNON. 


beautiful dress — of course you will be beautifully dressed, as you 
always are; but if you will allow me, I will do cicerone, and show 
you everybody and everything.” 

Mignon graciously accepts, though she is a little disappoiiite^l 
at the prospect of not dancing. This ball had been her fondest 
aspiration; ever since she received the card with the magic words, 
“ The lord chamberlain is commanded by the queen to invite 
Sir Tristram and Lady Bergholt,” etc., etc., she has been in a 
state of intense mental excitement, which she has carefully 
endeavored to suppress. To show exultation or mortification in 
the heaii monde is to show a lack of breeding; thus much Mignon 
has learned; feign joy or feign sorrow if thou wilt, but never let 
the real feelings of thy heart be known, lest thy friends triumph 
over or make a mock at thee. 

The longed-for time arrives. Mignon’s heart beats, the hand 
that rests on her husband’s arm trembles with excitement, as 
they thread their w^ay along the crowded corridor to the ball- 
room. It is a dazzling sight for a novice, the blaze of diamonds, 
the rich and varied uniforms, the distinguished-looking men, the 
well-born, well-dressed women. There are exceptions, but I can 
think of no other time and place where so much of birth, good 
looks, and distinction are congregated together. 

Lord Threestars meets them at the door, and Mignon transfers 
her hand to his arm. 

“ How late you are!” he w^hispers. I thought you were never 
coming.” 

They struggle through the crowd with none the less difficulty 
because of the aristocratic elements which compose it, and make 
for the upper end of the room. 

“ Extraordinary,” says Lord Threestars, “that, not wanting to 
dance, and with half a dozen other charming rooms to sit in, 
every one will crush in here.” 

From the elevated position to which he conducts her, Mignon 
has the pleasure of making a minute and searching inspection 
of the royal party, with the most gracious and charming princess 
in the world in their midst; she has an undisturbed view of the 
Scotch reel performed in front of the dais after supper, and, 
later on, she watches with immense interest the princess dancing 
like an ordinary mortal and evidently enjoying it too. 

“ Now,” says Lord Threestars, with a sigh of relief, “ I have 
kept my promise and shown you everything; now give me my 
reward and let us go and sit down quietly for a little while.” 

Mignon complies, and they wend their way to one of the 
handsome, deserted rooms — deserted save for a stray couple 
flirting here and there in a corner. But she prefers being before 
the public, and likes much better to be seen leaning on Lord 
Threestars’ arm among the crowd than to be sitting tete-a-tete 
with him in a comparatively empty room. Still, she wishes to 
make herself agreeable, and wreathes her face into smiles as he 
does his best to entertain her with the small talk of the day. 

Mignon, though she objects to the trouble of taking French 
and singing lessons, is an apt scholar, and has picked up the 
jargon of society without effort. She is able to talk of “ liigh 


MiGNOlT. 


121 


life and high-lived company, with other fashionable topics, such 
as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses.’' The 
three first-named have probably never gone out of vogue since 
that oft-quoted sentence was written ; pictures, whether the public 
are in raptures over Gainsborough, Reynolds, Sir Edwin, or 
Millais, old masters or promising young ones; taste, through its 
changes from powder and hoops to coal-scuttles and the scantiest 
garments allowed by a very liberal-minded decency, back again 
to hoops without powder and clinging garments unaccompanied 
by coal-scuttles; Shakespeare, whether expounded by Kemble, 
Kean, Fechter, Salvini, Rossi, or Irving. 

The musical glasses have had many substitutes, too numerous 
to attempt to chronicle; in the year of Mignon’s dehut polo did 
duty for them, since then it has been skating-rinks, and last 
year it took the novel form of a coffin-show. Curious study for 
the philosopher! a duke opens his grounds for the display of be- 
ribboned, befiowered wicker baskets, and, lo! the fashionable 
and the curious, who hate the name and thought of death, who 
shudder with terror and loathing when brought even into mo- 
mentary contact with it, snatch a moment from their frivolous 
pursuits to stare and chatter and jest over the strange show. I 
wonder if any of them saw, instead of the wreaths and ribbons, 
the fair faces and the smiles, a corruption so horrible as to sicken 
the strongest man, and the loathsome worms gliding in and out 
between the wicker-work? That is what I should have seen; 
and so I stayed away. If Juvenal had lived in the present day, 
he might, along with many of the vices he lashed in his own 
time, have had something to say about skating in the dog-days 
and flocking to a coffin-show. Baby-shows, barmaid -shows, 
seem a trifle extravagant in idea, but what are they to a coffin- 
show ? 

From a queen’s ball to a coffin, what a hideous digression! I 
humbly apologize to the reader for having carried him from a 
pleasant thought to a ghastly one, and with all speed I will hie 
me back. 

“ You will drive down to Lillie Bridge on Saturday, won’t 
you ?” Lord Threestars is entreating. “ I will send you tickets.” 

Perhaps,” answers Mignon, who is clever enough not to make 
her favors too cheap. 

“ But promise, and then I shall feel happy.” 

“ Women’s promises are not to be relied on, you know,” Mign- 
on answers, with a saucy laugh. 

“ Yours are, I am sure,” murmurs my lord, sentimentally. 

“ I am very hungry,” remarks Lady Bergholt, irreverently, 
“ and you have not asked me to have any supper.” 

“ Because I knew there would not be a chance until the dow- 
agers were appeased. Come now” (rising and giving her his 
arm). 

Lord Threestars is slightly fastidious; that so lovely a creat- 
ure as Lady Bergholt should not be superior to the gross sensa- 
tion of hunger is displeasing to him; when he sees that young 
lady’s remarkably healthy appetite, his soul is troubled withiq 
him. 


122 


MIGNOK 


I shall not dine with the Bergholts if they ask me,” he re- 
flects to himself; “ and I only trust I shall not sit next her at 
dinner anwhere. So lovely; and yet so hunp'y!” (sighing). “ If 
I were her husband I should make her eat in private, and play 
with a few grains of rice or something in public, like the young 
women in the ‘Arabian Nights.’ ” 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Passion I found, and love, and godlike pain, 

The swift soul rapt by mingled hopes and fears, 

Eyes lit with glorious light from the Unseen, 

Or dim with sacred tears.” 

Songs of Tv)0 Worlds. 

When Leo drove aw^ay from the Manor House, he felt as 
though he had left the best part of his life behind him. It was 
the first time that the presence of one particular human being 
had been utterly, absolutely indispensable to his happiness. He 
had often felt a keen regret at parting from his father, especially 
in the old school-days, but this agonizing blank was a new ex- 
perience. The pain was all the keener for its novelty. Men 
who have many loves leave them lightly and easily replace them ; 
but it could not be so with an ardent, chivalrous-minded boy 
like Leo, to whom the woman he loved was a divinity. Up to 
the present time, women had played but a small part in his life; 
he had been thrown little in their way, and sport had seemed to 
him the great object of existence. But from his boyish days, 
when he had dreamed of knights and heroes, and sighed after 
the olden time when the finest role of a gallant gentleman was 
to fight and die in the cause of womanhood, he had always had 
high and chivalrous thoughts of them. 

He had longed, like many another high-spirited lad, to be one 
of King Arthur’s knights, to ride forth to the succor of distressed 
damsels, to wear his lady’s glove in his helmet, to die with her 
name engraven on his heart. Later, when these boyish fancies 
were crowded out by the modern phase of prowess called sport, 
his thoughts of women were still tinged by the chivalrous, poetic 
old fancies. His ideal was rather an impossible angelic being, 
but it was a very good ideal for a young man to have. In this 
respect he differed happily from many of the rising youth of this 
generation, who ere their beards be grown, have learnt to think 
and speak more than lightly of the sex their mother should have 
made sacred to them. O women of the day, you who cannot 
help but see this glaring evil creeping on, in the flippant disre- 
spect, the want of reverence which boys, scarce grown to man- 
hood, show for you, who cannot help but see, and yet, far from 
checking, tolerate, nay, rather laugh at it, have you not much to 
answer for? Is it better, think you, that instead of having chiv- 
alrous thoughts of you, instead of looking up to you and believing 
with honest reverence in your purity and worth, they should 
hold you cheaply, and utter your name with significant smiles, 
or maybe a coarse jest ? When men talked flippantly about the 
sex in Leo’s presence — when they amused themselves by sneering 


MIGNOK 


123 


at virtue, worse, by denying its existence — when heard them 
class all women together without distinction — the 'honest flush 
would rise to his brow, and sometimes the honest anger to his 
lips, and — he would get laughed at. But in his present frame of 
mind, imbued with new reverence by his love for Olga, it would 
have been dangerous for any one to impugn in his hearing the 
sex of which almost every member was dear and sacred for her 
sake. 

Raymond found his friend very poor company, and was in- 
clined to be cross and cynical with him. He was a selfish young 
gentleman, as I have said, and did not at all relish being the 
victim of another person’s melancholy. 

“ Olga has been at her old games, I see,” he remarked, with a 
curve of the lip, when his mother had left them after dinner on 
the first evening of Leo’s return. Raymond was jealous: he did 
not like Mrs. Stratheden to make such a fuss with Leo, and 
rather wanted to take the conceit out of his friend in case he 
should flatter himself too much on the score of Olga’s kindness. 

A quick flush suffused Leo’s face; he had been rather subject 
to this young-lady-like affection since his accident; he was 
silent for a moment, then he said, with considerable warmth: 

“ Please don’t speak of Mrs. Stratheden in that way: she is an 
angel. If tJie best friend I have in the world spoke lightly of 
her, he would not be my friend any longer. We have always 
been good friends, Raymond; I should be awfully sorry for any- 
thing to interfere with our friendship.” And the lad put out 
his hand across the table with a frank, kindly grace that was 
irresistible. But there was an unmistakable determination in 
the tone of the foregoing words, and Raymond had an irritable, 
uneasy feeling of having been “ sat upon.” The sensation was 
as disagreeable as it was novel. But he took the proffered hand, 
saying, at the same time, with a smile which rather disfigured 
his handsome mouth : 

“ Of course I won’t say a word against your divinity. Will it 
cost me your friendship if I remark that, in my opinion, no 
woman is worth men’s quarreling about?” 

From this time Mrs. Stratheden was not mentioned between 
them. It was a dreadful punishment to poor Leo, who would 
have dearly liked to give vent now and then to his passionate 
enthusiasm and admiration for her. Raymond had an intuition 
of this, and was not ill pleased at being able to punish his friend 
for having made him feel small. 

A few days later they started for Scotland, where they were 
joined by two other men, one of whom had taken the shooting 
with Raymond. 

“ I don’t think there is a chance of my being ablfc. to shoot,” 
Leo had said, before starting. “You had better get some other 
fellow to take my place.” 

“You can but try. If you can’t manage it, I will send for 
Tracy. At all events, you can potter about and fish.” 

So it was settled. But Leo very soon found that the walking 
was out of the question, let alone the shooting. So when the 
others took their guns and started off in the dog-cart, he would 


124 


MIONON, 


wander away to the stream with his rod and a book and Olga’s 
picture next his heart. It was a new sensation for him, this 
enforced idleness and solitude. His whole being was pervaded 
by melancholy; he had nothing to do but to think, and thinking 
brought him scant comfort. Life, that was so glad a thing to 
him, had become almost a curse; this gnawing want of the heart 
seemed more unbearable than any bodily pain could have been. 
Morning after morning he wandered down to the stream through 
groves of mountain-ash, alders, and chesnuts, with a tangle of 
wild raspberries growing on either side of the scarcely defined 
path. Here and there through an opening he could see the pur- 
ple moors, and the green meadows and yellowing cornfields that 
lay between him and them, and he would sigh and wish he was 
striding over the heather after grouse, or doing something, any- 
thing that would take him out of himself. The swift clear water 
rushed over the stones with a pleasant sound, but it seemed to 
Leo only to intensify the silence and stillness of everything else 
around. 

He would sit down on a rock and watch the bright water 
sparkling in the sunshine, and the flies swarming over it. and 
once and again a little silvery trout leaping. He was laughed at 
every night when he showed the result of his day’s labor, a 
couple of dozen troutlets no bigger than sprats. One day he 
rode seven miles to a lake in the hollow of the hills. It was a 
lovely ride; purple moors on either side, with great tufts of fern 
and bracken and the modest blue-bell of Scotland growing by 
the roadside. Now and then a covey of birds would get up and 
fly a yard or two; but they seemed to know Leo had no gun, 
and did not disturb themselves much about him. The trout 
stream brawled below, winding through groves of firs, leaping, 
flashing, and murmuring garrulously to itself on its joyous way, 
like some living thing. Leo put up at the minister’s house, and 
the wife, a good-natured but quite common woman, came out, 
offered him milk, and smiled pleasantly, as women are apt to do 
at sight of a comely male face, more especially when the vision 
is rare. She showed him her cows and poultry, whilst the tame 
goats came and rubbed against his legs. Leo was glad of some 
one to talk to, particularly a woman, however coarse clay she 
might be compared with the fine porcelain of his idol. 

The good wife questioned him as to why he was not shooting, 
and Leo told her all about his accident and of Olga’s heroic 
conduct. It was the first time he had spoken of her for 
weeks, and it was delightful to him. His auditor listened with 
ready sympathy, her shrewd woman wit not slow to grasp 
the true state of affairs; it was the pleasantest half hour Leo 
had spent for an age. Then he strolled away to the loch. It 
was a bright, hot day, with a blue sky, and fleecy clouds that 
hovered like great birds over the moors, making dark shadowy 
patches in the purple. Leo thought of the “flocks upon a 
thousand hills ” as he saw the sheep dotted about everywhere 
and heard the faint tinkle of their distant bells. A broad 
ripple came across the water, and the trout began to jump. 
Snipe looked impudently at him from a little island of reeds, a 


MIGNOK 


125 


wild duck got up and flew away, a flock of plover circled over 
his head uttering their dismal cry. Now and again the sharp 
report of guns was borne on the air and taken up by the echoes, 

Leo put his rod together and began to fish. He was in luck; 
six good-sized fish fell a prey to him in less than half an hour. 
But there the day’s sport came to an Qnd; he whipped the 
stream for a couple of hours more, but never got a rise. So 
he threw himself down under a bank of heather and began to 
dream. If she were only here, now. how passing fair the face of 
nature would seem, how eloquent this stillness! If he might 
only sit mutely and watch her broad eyelids, the turn of her 
head, and her little jeweled fingers! Then he drew forth her 
cherished image that his kisses had blurred. 

If I could only have a good picture of her,” thought the poor 
lad, it would be such a comfort to me.” Suddenly the thought 
flashed across him that he would ask her to give him one; it 
would be an excuse for writing, whether she granted his request 
or not. Day after day he had resolved to write to her; some- 
times he thought of telling her what he suffered and invoking 
her pity; he had begun many a letter, had written page after 
page of passionate love and despair, only to tear them to shreds 
afterward. It was unmanly, he told himself, to importune a 
woman with a love she did not return. But what should a man 
do who loved vainly, loved with a love that cankered life and ate 
the heart and hope out of it ? He rejected utterly the old-fash- 
ioned notion of drink and dissipation as a remedy for the heart- 
ache. ‘‘If you love a pure woman,” he said to himself, “it 
ought to make your life the nobler and the better, even though 
the love be hopeless. Is a man to bring himself to the level of a 
beast because he loves an angel and cannot win her? If she 
never knew it, it would be something to have tried to be a better 
fellow and of some use in the world for her sake.” 

Then he would call to mind the talk they had had together 
about life. 

“ A man can do so much,” she had said one day, with a sigh. 
“ And there is so little for a woman — I mean for a woman who 
is alone in the world, as I am, and who has no ties.” 

“ Would you like to be a man ?’* he asked. 

“ No,” she answered, with a frank smile; ‘'all my feelings are 
so much a woman’s that I have never regretted my sex. In the 
first place, I am a sad coward, and a man should have no nerves; 
I hate hardship and discomfort of any sort; and then, you know, 
with my love of the dumb creation, I could never have been a 
sportsman.” 

“ But what can a man do if he isn’t a sportsman, when he has 
no profession ?” 

“ Do!” cried Olga, with enthusiasm; “ everything. Of course, 
I suppose it is right for a man to care for field-sports, or he 
would not be manly; but do you suppose he is sent into the world 
with nothing better to do than to kill and maim as many help- 
less creatures as he can get near? An excellent ambition for a 
wild Indian who has to live by his bow and spear,” continued 
Olga, scornfully, “but scarcely worthy of a Christian gentle^ 


126 


MIGNOK 


man. If you want something to exercise your combative facul- 
ties on, exert them upon misery and vice and want. Oh, if I 
were a man ” (with ardor), “ I would try to make something or 
some one the better for me. It is not to be done in a lazy, half- 
hearted way; but if a man desires from his soul to do good to 
his kind, there are plenty of ways and means.” 

One must go into Parliament first, I suppose,” hazarded 
Leo, whose ideas of how to benefit humanity were extremely 
vague. 

No doubt that gives you opportunities,” answered Olga, "‘if 
you go with the honest intention of using them for the benefit of 
your fellow-creatures, and if you enter upon the life with honest 
convictions — not, like some men, ready to tell any falsehood or 
take any side for the sake of putting M. P, after your name and 
getting what social distinction those two letters are supposed 
to give.” 

Leo, as he dreamed among the heather in the sunny after- 
noon, pondered in his mind whether it were possible for 
him to approach in the faintest degree to Olga’s idea of what 
a man should be. 

“ It should be a man's aim,” she had said, “ to protect all that 
is weak, to help all that suffers. ” His heart echoed to hers as 
she spoke, but until then it had never entered his mind that he 
personally could carry out such an idea. Life and its aims, as 
he had viewed them three months ago, seemed ignoble and un- 
satisfying to him to-day; but then came the thought, “ How can 
I change it now ?” 

And then and there, w'hilst the August afternoon waned, Leo, 
lying with closed eyes against the heather bank, thought his 
problem out. He had much to do before he could be fit to enter 
upon a career such as Olga had vaguely hinted at; he must con- 
quer his own ignorance and shyness first, and to this end he 
must study and travel. Leo’s enthusiam rose as he drew ^ivid 
pictures of an active and useful future, and through the long 
vista one glorious idea lay always at the end of the goal; he 
would win Olga’s approval. He could never be worthy of her, 
but if he used all his energies, all his faculties, in straining to 
approach, however faintly, her ideal, he might be able to say to 
her, in the days to come, “ Whatever I have succeeded in, what- 
ever I have done worth doing, was for your dear sake and be- 
cause you inspired me.” 

A glow came over Leo’s face, his lips moved to the words, and 
he opened his blue eyes with a look of gladness and triumph, as 
though he had already fought his battle and conquered. Once 
more life held something for him. The day no longer seemed 
dull, solitude oppressed him not. He rose, took his rod to pieces,* 
shouldered his basket of fish, and with a light heart and step 
wended his way back to the minister’s house. He bade the good- 
wife adieu, left her a couple of fine trout, and started home- 
ward. A mile on, he came upon two of the shooting party, 
sitting on a stone waiting for the dog-cart. The pony laden 
with game, the two brace of handsome pointers, and the good- 
looking young sportsman, made a picturesque group. 


MIGNON. 


127 


What sport ?■’ shouted Leo, as he rode up. 

“ Twenty brace and nine hares,” responded Raymond. “ What 
have you done V” 

** Six good-sized trout; but I left two with the minister’s wife.” 

"‘You should never waste time and civility on ugly old 
women,” laughed ^^ymond; there’s no satisfaction to be got 
out of it.” 

Then the dog-cart came up, and they all went homeward. 

That evening, whilst the rest of the party smoked and chatted, 
Leo sat in his room writing his petition to Olga. He penned a 
letter full of enthusiastic plans for the future, and finished by 
begging her to let him have a good picture of her, that he might 
always have her image near to stimulate and encourage him. 
He left the letter on the table, went to the open window, and 
looked out for a long time into the night. Presently he returned 
to the table, and read over what he had written. 

“ It is a silly, bragging letter,” he said, and tore it into shreds. 

If I fail, if, as is more than likely, I never do anything worth 
the doing, wha;, a pitiful fellow she will think me! No, I won’t 
say a word of my intentions; if she ever hears of anything it 
shall be actions.” 

He took up his pen again, and wrote: 

“ My dear Mrs. Stratheden,— I should have liked to write 
to you a great many times since I came here, but there has been 
nothing of the least interest to tell, and I feel I have already 
taken up a great deal too much of your time. I often think of 
you and Mrs. Forsyth and the dear old Manor House (the most 
perfect place in the world, / think), and everything and every- 
body about it. I shall always remember that month as the 
happiest of my life. Don’t be angry with me. I am going to 
ask you a very great favor, but I would almost rather you were 
angry with me and granted it, than that you should forgive me 
and refuse. You have done so much for me I ought to be 
ashamed to ask anything more; but I do so want to have a good, 
a really good likeness of my dear preserving angel. The one I 
have is so faded, and does not a thousandth part do you justice. 
I know I am making a bold request, but I know, too, that your 
kindness and goodness exceed even my boldness. I shall look 
most anxiously, for your reply. Please remember me very 
kindly to Mrs. Forsyth, and believe me, always, 

“ Yours faithfully and devotedly, 

“ Leo Vyner.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“Maisla femme qui soutient I’amour par I’estime, envoie ses amants 
d’un signe, d’un bout du monde a I’autre, au combat, a la gloire, a la . 
mort, ou il lui plait— cet empire est beau, ce me semble, et vaut bien la 
peine d’etre achete.” J. J. Rousseau. 

Olga had been perplexed, and, truth to tell, a little nettled, at 
Leo’s persistent silence. Her experience of lovers had led her to 
expect a series of letters from him containing every phase of 
love and despair; the only thing she was not prepared for was 


12S 


MIGNON, 


silence. She did not comprehend the manly, unselfish spirit 
that prompted his reticence, his fear of giving pain to a heart so 
kind and sympathetic as hers by betraying his suffering; woman- 
like, she said to herself, with some pique, “ It was a boyish 
fancy; he has forgotten all about me. I hardly thought he 
would be cured so soon.” 

If Leo, instead of being the simple young fellow he was, 
utterly unversed in the ways of women, had been the most 
astute of Lovelaces, he could not have chosen a more effective 
way of rousing Olga’s interest and keeping himself before her 
mind. Morning after morning she, almost unconsciously to her- 
self, turned over her letters to look for his handwriting, and 
morning after morning there was a kind of unacknowledged 
disappointment in her mind as none was forthcoming. When 
Mrs. Forsyth occasionally asked for news of their patient, she 
was almost vexed with her friend for asking because she had 
nothing to tell; and one day when Mrs. Forsyth remarked, “ I 
think he might have written,” she made quite a petulant answer. 
Her friend did not seem to remark it, but she was, nevertheless, 
very much astonished in her own mind. “It is not possible,'' 
she said to herself, with great emphasis, “ that Olga’s heart, hav- 
ing been as hard as the nether millstone for years, is now going 
to melt for a boy like this.” The idea worried her inconceivably, 
and she began to keep her eyes wide open. 

Olga missed her patient more than she would have cared to 
confess. It had been pleasant to her to have an object of per- 
petual solicitude; now it was almost a pain to miss Leo’s stal- 
wart figure, his frank face, the blue eyes which followed her 
about with a dog-like fidelity and affection. Blue eyes have not 
often that faithful look of a dog’s eyes, but Leo’s had. She 
filled the Manor House with ^ests, she would not give herself 
time to think, and yet she missed him. Then she grew angry, 
and said to herself that he was ungrateful, and not only ungrate- 
ful, but ill-mannered. Common courtesy demanded that he 
should have written to express his acknowledgments, if nothing 
else. So poor Leo, doing violence to his desires that he might 
not vex or trouble the queen of his heart, was working himself 
steadily into her disfavor. 

When at last his letter arrived, she had ceased to expect it. It 
did not give her much pleasure, either; it contained none of the 
fervent protestations she might, from his behavior on the night 
of their parting, have not unreasonably expected; he did not say 
that life was blank to him because of his absence from her. On 
the contrary, the letter was evidently written in a thoroughly 
cheerful and happy vein. 

Olga flung it away from her in a pet, and made up her mind 
not to answer it at all. With the curious inconsistency that is 
a part of human nature, more especially, I am told, of feminine 
human nature, she sat up long after her guests had retired, to 
write a discursive letter to the very person who had been want- 
ing, she said, in common courtesy to her. She even did a much 
stranger thing. By a singular coincidence, she had the morning 
previous received an exquisite miniature of herself by Dickiu- 


MIGNON. 


129 


son, which she had designed as a surprise for Mrs. Forsyth on 
her birthday. It had caught her in one of her happiest 
moments: her own verdict was that it flattered her outrage- 
ously. 

“ I will send it to him,” said proud Olga, who had never given 
her portrait to a man in her life. And she did, with the follow- 
ing letter: 

‘‘My Dear Leo, — It was an agreeable surprise to find that 
you had not forgotten us. Your long silence had brought us to 
the conclusion that sport (euphemism, you know, in my opinion, 
for the ‘ brutal instincts of the savage ’), the blue-bells of Scot- 
land, and other unknown though dimly-^essed-at fascina- 
tions, had obliterated the Manor House and its occupants from 
your thoughts. Men are naturally ungrateful. Poor Truscott 
was very disconsolate after you left: he was like Othello with 
‘ his occupation gone ’ — the only respect, certainly, in which one 
could liken him to the Moor. More than once he confided to me 
that the place seemed ‘ quite lonesome ’ without you. Mrs. For- 
syth and I too found the time hang a little, until we busied our- 
selves with preparations for an influx of visitors who are still 
with us. It is almost too hot to play hostess; fortunately, every 
one is equally disposed to far nientey which relieves me to a cer- 
tain extent of the labor of finding amusement for them. Some, 
indeed, have considerately paired off, and give no trouble at all, 
except to find them when one wants to organize a game, picnic, 
or dance; the gardens, as you know, are admirably adapted for 
people who are not good at locality to lose themselves in. 

“ Now I am going to scold you. You might have imagined 
that I should be anxious to know how my patient progressed. 
For three weeks you do not write at all; then, when you do, not 
one word about the arm, or your health, or anything that concerns 
your individuality. I shall expect a budget in return for this, 
with all the minutest details. What are your i)lans for the 
autumn and winter? Sport, sport, sport, I suppose! We shall 
be here until October; you might look in upon us en route from 
the north to show us how perfectly robust Scotch air has made 
you. The doctor says you will not do the birds much harm for 
a month or two; but I have great faith in your constitution and 
recuperative powers. 

“ Write to me, unless letter- writing bores you— and even if it 
does. I shall always be interested to hear about you, as, after 
my month’s nursing, I have a feeling that you belong to me. 
Give my love to Raymond, and believe me, always, 

“Very sincerely yours, 

“ Olga Stratheden. 

“ You ask for my picture. I send you one which came yester- 
day and was destined for ma chere. Do not betray me to her, I 
hardly know if you will recognize the lovely creature in the 
Florentine frame; it would have been a flattering picture of me 
five years ago, and ought only to be given to some one who is 
never likely to see me again. That, however, will not, I hope, 
be the case with you. Now good-night; every one else is wrap- 


130 


MIGNON. 


peel in slumber, and I begin to have an uncomfortable feeling of 
wanting to look over my shoulder to be sure there is no one be- 
hind me. I am very brave in the day, but when the sun sets all 
my courage seems to sink with it.” 

Why should I tell what Leo felt and did when the post brought 
him that most precious freight ? You messieurs who pish and 
pshaw over love-passages now were, I presume, once young and 
entliusiastic, and had excesses of rapture and passion that would 
seem extravagant and incomprehensible to you now. But you, 
fair readers, your wits and imaginations are keen in these deli- 
cate matters, you will conceive a tolerably correct idea of the 
effect Olga’s letter and picture had on her ardent young lover. 
You may be quite sure he did not consider it flattering. How could 
he ever thank her enough? — no one but Olga was capable of so 
graceful an act, done so graciously and without making it appear 
the favor it was. Leo wrote to her without restraint; he poured 
out all his heart to her, just as it would have bubbled up to his 
lips had she been there; he almost thought she was, with that 
sweet face, looking at him out of the picture. It was a letter 
that must have flattered any woman, it breathed such adoration 
and reverence. It was not the letter of a man who hoped any- 
thing, but of one who wished to offer the best and purest hom- 
age his heart was capable of. 

Olga was wont to be critical over her love-letters, to be very 
captious over the turn of a phrase, moved to immoderate mirth 
over poetic sentiment, intolerably disgusted by a misspelt word. 
And, alas! many young gentlemen who have been educated at 
Eton and Oxford are occasionally subject to a lapse in their 
spelling. As for soldiers, poor fellows! I believe some of them 
write with the point of their swords and have not room in their 
kit for a dictionary. 

But there was nothing in Leo’s letter to move the most cynical 
mouth to smile; nay, when Olga had read it she laid it down 
gently and hid her face in her hands. Something very like 
tears found their way through her white fingers and fell softly 
on her bosom. She no longer entertained those doubts of Leo’s 
affection and gratitude that had imbittered her thoughts of him 
a few days ago. 

Since Oliver Beauregard’s time, no one had touched Olga’s 
heart. She had liked men, had fancied she might come to care 
for them in time, but she had always shaken herself free of the 
fancy. She had schooled herself so hard to believe that men 
were not to be trusted, and that, for women, love was only a 
synonym for misery. And yet there was no woman breathing 
more unfitted by nature to stand aloof from love than Olga; no 
heart could be more tender, more prone to soft dependence than 
hers. Fate and Oliver Beauregard had made her life the barren 
thing it was to herself, even though it seemed so fair and envi- 
able in the eyes of the world. Leo had stolen into her heart, the 
heart that had been empty, swept and garnished for so long; but 
she would not admit it, even to her inmost self. She would 
h^^ve scouted the idea, treated it with impatient scorn, Tb.at 


MIGNON, 


131 


she, who prided herself on her discretion, her common sense, 
should for an instant permit herself to entertain a thought of a 
man years younger than herself — absurd! preposterous! She 
went even so far as to say disgusting! Unfortunately, knowing 
that things are foolish, being as perfectly awake and alive to the 
fact as our best friends or our worst enemies can possibly be, 
does not always hinder us from doing them. 

The guests had left the Manor House; Olga had nothing to dis- 
tract her mind ; so she retired to her hammock on the green isl- 
and, taking with her Balzac’s historiette, “La Femme Aban- 
donnee.” Had there been any one to w^atch her face as she read, 
they would not have failed to be struck by the lively emotions 
which chased eacli other there during the perusal. Need I say 
that for Gaston she read L^o, for the Vicomtesse de Beauseant, 
herself ? The lines which I transcribe seemed to her singularly 
applicable to her young lover: 

“ File trouvait en lui le reve de toutes les femmes, un homme 
chez lequel n’existait encore ni cet egoisme de famille et de for- 
tune, ni ce sentiment personnel qui finissent par tuer, dans leur 
premier elan, le devouement, Thonneur, I’abnegation, I’estime de 
soi-meme, fleurs d’ame sitot fanees qui enrichissent la vie 
d’emotions delicates quoique fortes, et ravivent en F homme la 
probite du coeur.” 

There are few more touching stories than the one of this 
woman, plunged from a life which was one continued fete to 
the horrors of isolation, buried alive with the memories of her 
brilliant, happy, passionate youth. “Being” (as Balzac de- 
scribes her) “ neither wife nor mother, repulsed by the world, 
deprived of the only heart which could make hers beat without 
shame, unable to draw support from any source for her fainting 
soul, she must seek strength in herself, live her own life, and 
have no other hope than that of a forsaken woman — to wait for 
death, to welcome his coming in spite of the youth and beauty 
which are still left to her, to feel herself destined for happiness, 
and to perish without receiving, without giving it! A woman! 
What a sorrow!” 

Why “should Olga be intensely affected by this story ? Her life 
had been as different from Madame de Beauseant’s as one 
woman’s could well be from another’s, and yet, had their cases 
been identical, Olga could not have been more forcibly touched. 
Was it on the principle that made John Wesley say, as he saw 
the poor wretch dragged to Tyburn, “ There goes John Wesley 
but for the grace of God ?” Why should any of us be proud to 
have been sheltered from temptation ? There is only one thing 
that can make pride worthy — to have been tempted and to have 
conquered. 

I fancy, however, that what touched Olga so keenly was 
sympathy with the woman’s loneliness, with her passioiiate re- 
gret of the days of her youth, passing unfilled, unblessed by love 
or joy. Here was the similitude, the point of union. Then Olga 
read of Gaston’s first interview with the vicomtesse, his passion- 
ate letter burning with all the enthusiasm, the homage of a 
young man’s first love (a letter inferior to Leo’s, she told herself), 


182 


MIGNON, 


the cold reasoning tone of Madame de Beauseant’s answer (such 
an answer as Olga felt prudence and discretion would prompt 
herself to make): 

“ J’ai bientot trente ans, monsieur; et vous en avez vingt-deux 
a piene. Vous ignorez vous-meme ce que seront vos pensees 
quant vous arriverez a mon age. Les serments que vous jurez 
si facilement aujourd’hui pourront alors vous paraitre bien 
lourds.” 

She read of the vicomtesse’s flight, of Gaston’s pursuit, of the 
nine years of their happiness, when time seemed to dream, and 
everything smiled upon them. Then came the intervention of 
Gaston’s mother, and the question of his marriage with the 
heiress. Here Olga awoke, with a start, to the fact that her case 
and Madame de Beauseant’s could not in any way be parallel. 
The vicomtesse was not Gaston’s wife. She fell into a reverie. 
Would not the illusion vanish all the more swiftly because of the 
tie, and would it be less hard to be forsaken in the spirit than in 
the letter? 

She read on to the end with burning eyes and a throbbing 
heart, read the heart-rending appeal of the woman to whom 
Gaston’s love was all that life held, his reply, his desertion of her, 
his remorse — too late, 

Olga sprung up. “ Never!” she cried to herself, with feverish 
energy; “ never!” 

From that moment she resolved to banish Leo from her 
thoughts. 

Later in the afternoon, Mrs. Forsyth, taking a solitary stroll, 
happened to turn her steps to the island. Her attention was 
arrested by a book lying on the grass; it was open face down- 
ward, and looked as if it had fallen or been thrown there. Mrs. 
Forsyth picked it up, and observed that there were marks of 
tears upon the open page. She put up her eye-glass to look at 
the heading. It was “ La Femme Abandonnee.” 

“ Then she is really serious,” she said to herself, with an air 
of stupefaction. Mrs. Forsyth took the book and replaced it on 
the shelf, but she made no remark on the subject to Olga. 


CHAPTER XXII, 

} “ For indeed I know 

Of no more subtle master under heaven, 
****** 

Not only to keep down the base in man, 

But teach high thought and amiable words. 

And courtlinesss, and the desire of fame. 

And love of truth, and all that makes a man.’’ 

Tennyson, 

Leo, very characteristically, had said nothing in his letters to 
his father about his accident, but had merely hinted that he had 
slightly strained his left arm. He would not for the world have 
caused his father any anxiety or uneasiness, and was ‘singularly 
free from that form of selfishness which likes to make the most 
of its sufferings. 


MIGNOK 


133 


Mr. Vyner was quite ignorant of Leo’s compelled abnegation 
of sport, for in his letters the latter always chronicled the 
“ bags,” and suppressed all mention of the fourth gun. On the 
30th of August Leo received the following letter: 

“ My dear Leo,— I have had a great disappointment. As you 
know, 1 was to have gone to Cobham for the 1st, and we ex- 
pected some excellent shooting. I have just heard from Mrs. C. 
that her poor husband has had a paralytic seizure. The news 
has shocked me very much, and will you, I am sure. This puts 
out all my plans. It would not seem like the first of September 
if I did not take my gun out; but it is dull work shooting alone, 
and, besides, I would not rob you of your share of the sport. I 
wish you were here; however, I don't want to interfere vvith 
your pleasure, as I suppose you are having capital sport and en- 
joying yourself thoroughly. There are any quantity of birds, 
and we shall have lots of pheasants this season, 1 am glad to 
say. Your affectionate father, 

“ Ralph Vyner." 

After reading the letter, Leo made up his mind to start for 
home at once. He saw- that his father w-as anxious to have him, 
and determined not to disappoint him. True, he could do very 
little in the w-ay of shooting; but the old gentleman would like 
to have him to walk w-ith and to talk over affairs at night. Leo 
had only one regret; but it was a very keen one. He had looked 
forward so intensely to seeing Olga on his way home. Had his 
father’s letter come one day sooner, he could have managed it; 
but now there was only just time to get home by the following 
night. 

Leo wrote at once to Mrs. Stratheden, expressing his disap- 
pointment. That lady, on receipt of the letter, frowmed, bit her 
lip, and chose to imagine that if he had made an effort he could 
have come. She tore the displeasing communication to shreds, 
and sat down to write invitations for a new party at the Manor 
House. 

Since the day he had spent thinking by the loch among the 
moors, Leo had never sw-erved from the intentions he had 
formed there. The one thing that troubled him, w'as how to 
break the news to his father. Mr. Vyner w^as opposed to prog’ 
ress— thought people fools who wanted to leave a country even 
for a few months, which, in his opinion, was the only one fit to 
live in, and believed the life of a country gentleman with a com- 
fortable income Superior to any other. Up to the present time, 
Leo had accepted his father’s opinions, and to a certain extent 
acquiesced in them; he had been quite satisfied with the idea of 
follownng in the paternal footsteps and devoting his life to tran- 
quil country pursuits, alternated by the excitement of sport. 
But suddenly all his views had changed; such a life seemed 
stagnation, a living death. He felt a consciousness of greater 
capabilities in himself ; the chords of ambition had been touched 
in him, his heart vibrated to them, be could no longer bear to 
contemplate a useless future such as w^as destined for lum. 

The thought of breaking his new views to his father had given 


134 


MIGNOK 


Leo considerable uneasiness. Filial instincts were strong in 
him: until now, the most sacred duty in life had been yielding 
to his father’s wishes, and Mr. Vyner had been an eminently 
kind, indulgent, and unexacting father. Leo loved and respected 
him, respected him because he was his father, without stopping 
to question for an instant whether the respect was due to him 
independently of their relations to each other. Here again he 
differed from many of his contemporaries, who look with a mixt- 
ure of condescension and contempt on their fathers, and treat 
them rather as necessary evils than oracles; the same healthy 
moral tone that gave him his chivalrous ideas of women made 
him reverence his father and treat old people with respect. Tlie 
fact that he was perfectly unconscious of holding any particular 
opinions on these subjects, and merely acted as nature and good 
feeling prompted him, made him thoroughly devoid of any prig- 
gishness. 

The news must be broken sooner or later. How should he 
break it? This thought was becoming Leo’s- torment. He 
longed to take the plunge, but said to himself: 

“ I won’t spoil his sport for the first day or two.’’ 

Mr. Vyner was exceedingly concerned when he heard the nat- 
ure of his son’s accident. Leo mentioned Mrs. Stratheden’s 
heroic conduct, but he could not expatiate upon it as he had 
done to the Scotch minister’s wife. Somehow, he felt tongue- 
tied; and then he did not wish his father to connect his new 
views in any way with Olga. 

“ Plucky woman that, by George!” said Mr. Vyner, with en- 
thusiasm. “ I should like to see her and thank her. Here's ner 
health!” (the recital took place after dinner). If it hadn’t been 
for her nerve you might not have been sitting here now, my 
boy.” And the father’s eyes moistened, and he held out his 
hand, and the two grasx)ed each other as is the undemonstrative 
way of Englishmen, though it speaks volumes to themselves. 
“ Confoundedly careless of young L’Estrange! I hate playing 
with firearms: you might just as well play at tasting poisons. 
Keep them for when you want them, is my theory.” 

The days went on; his father seemed so happy and in such 
spirits, Leo had no heart to break the evil tidings: evil they 
would be he knew well enough, but secretly he was chafing and 
miserable. 

It was the fifth evening after his return, and they were smok- 
ing their after-dinner cigars together. 

Leo,” said Mr. Vyner, suddenly, do you know I have been 
thinking you ought to see Moore ? I’m afraid your arm is not so 
well: you seem so restless and fidgety. I’m not very fond of the 
profession — thank God, I haven’t been to a doctor for thirty 
years myself — but in a case of accident it’s just as well to be 
watched; eh, boy?” 

Then Leo suddenly broke out: 

“My dear old dad, it isn’t that. My arm’s right enough. I 
have something on my mind.” 

His father looked at him. He had not a very rapid intelli- 
gence, but two ideas occurred to him simultaneously. A worn??;; 


0 




135 


Debt. If a man had anything on his mind, it must be connected 
with one or the other. 

Leo paused, and Mr. Vyner had time to take a long puff at his 
cigar. Then he said with a certain dry emphasis: 

“Well, I suppose it is nothing so bad but what your father 
can help you out of it ?” 

“ My dear father,” Leo answered, quickly, “if it were not for 
you, it would not be a trouble at all.” 

Mr. Vyner stared blankly at his son. His imagination, having 
expended itself on the two causes of a man’s undoing, refused to 
grasp a third. So he waited to be enlightened. 

“You know,” proceeded Leo, a little hurriedly, “I have al- 
ways thought the sort of life we led the best in the world. 1 
am devoted to hunting and shooting; but latterly, latter- 
ly ” 

Leo stopped; he would not for the world make any reflection 
upon his father by saying such a life was selfish and useless, so 
he had to come to a full stop. 

“ Well?” said Mr. Vyner, dryly— “ latterly ?” 

“ I have thought,” proceeded his son, “ I have thought I should 
like to find a little food for my mind — to travel — to see othe r 
countries and ” 

Mr. Vyner’s mind returned triumphantly to his first idea. 

“ There is a woman at the bottom of this,” he remarked, in a 
tone which admitted of no contradiction. 

Leo was dumfounded at his father’s perspicacity. He did 
not know that a man has only to live a certain number of years 
to be able to ask with perfect security the world- famed question, 
“Who is she?” 

“ I knew it,” cried Mr. Vyner, triumphantly. 

“Well, yes,” answered Leo, in a low voice. “ I did not mean 
to have spoken of her, but it is quite true. 1 love the best, the 
noblest woman in the world.” 

“ Of course,” interrupted his father, dryly. 

“ Ay, sir, she is; and you have only to see her to confess that 
whatever I might say of her would be insufficient to do her 
justice.” 

Mr. Vyner smiled insignificantly to himself, as much as to say, 
“ The poor boy is very far gone: but let him rave; his complaint 
requires humoring.” 

“ Well, well,” he said, encouragingly, “ and when am I to see 
this young paragon; whom I suppose you intend to give me for 
a daughter-in-law ?” 

A cloud came over Leo's face. 

“ There is no more chance of her being anything to me than 
there is of my becoming King of England.” 

Mr. Vyner’s brow contracted. 

“ Leo,” he uttered, sternly, “ you’re not making a fool of your- 
self about a married woman!” 

“ Good heavens, sir,” cried Leo, warmly, “what do you take 
me for?” He was young and ingenuous enough to look upon 
loving another man’s wife as a crime; 

His father’s face relaxed. 


136 


MIGNON, 


“ Well,” he remarked, “perhaps you will explain the matter. 
If a woman isn’t married and isn’t a princess of the blood royal, 
there is no reason, as far as I know, why any man shouldn’t 
marry her, provided he be a gentleman and can keep her. Pray 
ivhy can’t she be anything to you ?” 

“She is beautiful, clever, rich,” answered Leo; “she has 
everything. In comparison I have nothing. What have I to 
offer her ?” 

“Hang it all,” cried Mr. Vyner, testily, “you are not a 
pauper. You will have five thousand a year when I die, and the 
property is improving, and if you have set your heart on marry- 
ing, you might trust to my liberality, I think. Who is this 
girl? A daughter of Mrs. Stratheden, I presume?” 

“ It is Mrs. Stratheden herself,” answered Leo, briefly. 

His father gave a low whistle of intelligence. 

“ A widow! the devil! that accounts for it. You need say no 
more, my boy. Older than yourself, of course; been leading you 
on, playing the fool with you, and then sending you to the right • 
about. I know their game. I always had a horror of widows 
myself. Well, I am very glad, under the circumstances, there 
is no chance of my having her for a daughter-in-law.” 

Leo turned pale. He felt his passion rising. Never in his life 
had he spoken an angry word to his father. He got up quickly 
and went out through the open window into the garden and at 
racing speed toward the wood. He felt that nothing but rapid 
movement or fierce speech could allay the fury in his heart, 
His angel, his darling, to be profaned by coarse speech! 

“ D the woman!” muttered Mr. Vyner, as his son dashed 

through the window. “ I did not think the boy cared two 
straws about a petticoat. Some artful, designing hussy, I’ll be 
bound, probably old enough to be his mother; those are the 
women who always get hold of raw boys and make fools of 
them. Thank God, no woman ever made a fool of me!” And 
Mr. Vyner pulled up his shirt-collar with a justifiable feeling of 
pride. 

^ It was half an hour before Leo returned. 

“ Father,” he said, quietly, “if you don’t mind, well drop the 
subject of my — my love, and talk about the other thing.” 

“ But I suppose one’s the natural consequence of the other/’ 
growled Mr. Vyner. “ When a man’s in love, and his suit doesn’t 
prosper, he generally does one of two things. If he has the element 
of the blackguard in him, he goes full tilt to the devil; if he’s a 
decent fellow, he fills his head with Quixotic ideas about doing 
something very wonderful in the world, setting the Thames on 
fire, or something equally remarkable. You’ll get all right when 
hunting begins. Meantime, if you fancy traveling for a month 
or two, go, in God’s name, and I will write you a check for your 
journey to-night, if you like.” 

“Thanks, sir, but that isn’t the sort of traveling I want. It 
will take a good deal more than a couple of months for me to 
see what I want to. A tour in Switzerland or Germany is. the 
furthest from my thoughts. I want to go to America, not as 
a cockney tourist, but to learn something about the country. In 


MIGNON. 187 

fact,” continued Leo, dropping his voice, I want more than 
that; I want to go round the world, and to do it at leisure.” 

A long silence followed. Mr. Vyner was paralyzed; he felt as 
if Leo had struck him — a mingled rage and stupor, as though 
the son whom he loved, and who had always been dutiful, had 
defied and threatened him. His head sank on his chest, his 
whole soul was flooded with disappointment. 

Leo saw that he was suffering and was smitten by remorse. 

“Don’t be vexed, dad,” he murmured, leaning forward and 
laying a gentle hand on his father’s arm, “ think it over. I 
don’t want to go yet. God knows I would rather do anything 
than pain you, but I feel that to go on doing nothing and eating 
my heart out with wanting what I cannot have, would kill me.” 

“ You might think of me,” answered his father, in a hoarse 
voice. “ Have I been a bad father to you? — have I ever denied 
you anything ? You have lived all your life with me, and I’ve 
done the best I could for you, and yet in a few days this woman 
makes you forget all about me and what you owe to me, and you 
don’t care two straws whether you bring my gray hairs with sor- 
row to the grave or not.” 

Anything like pathos from his father was so unusual that it 
stirred Leo’s heart to its inmost depths. 

“ But, dad,” he pleaded, “ why should you grieve? It would 
only be a matter of eight or nine months; and I have been away 
from you nearly as long as that before.” 

“In a Christian country,” answered Mr. Vyner, with energy. 
“If you broke your neck hunting, or got shot, I might say, 
‘ God’s will be done,’ but out there among savages, to be mur- 
dered or tortured perhaps, or shipwrecked on the voyage. No, 
no! My belief is that Providence looks after those who look 
after themselves, not people who tempt Him by wandering 
where they have no business, and putting themselves willfully 
in harm’s way. If you’re ambitious, if you want something to 
occupy your mind, why not stop at home and go into Parlia- 
ment ?” 

“ I wish I had the chance,” said Leo, eagerly. 

“ Vivian was sounding me about it only the other day,” re- 
plied Mr. Vyner. “ He wants to give up his seat at the next 
election. He is getting worn out, and late hours don’t suit him, 
and he hinted that if you liked to go in for it, you shall have all 
his influence.” 

“ Did he?” cried Leo, with enthusiasm. “ And what did you 
say?” 

“ I said,” answered Mr. Vyner, bitterly, “ that my son and I 
knew the value of God’s gifts too well to live in a pestilential at- 
mosphere the best months of the year, and to make ourselves 
the servants of a party, whether of ambitious place-hunters or of 
a parcel of poor fools who don’t know when they’re well off. I 
thought I might speak for you as I would for myself. I have 
heard ‘ It’s a wise child that knows its own father,’ but it seems 
to me there would be just as much truth in it if they put it the 
other way.” ' 

An hour ago, Mr. Vyner would as soon have thought of pro- 


188 


MIGNON. 


posing to his son to go into Parliament as of suggesting to liiin to 
shoot pheasants in August; but then there had been no question 
of the other alternative. One was an act of egregious folly 
which only entailed a certain waste of money and time; the 
other seemed to him a question of life or death. 

Leo dropped the subject of his travels and went eagerly into 
discussion of his chances of succeeding Mr. Vivian. 

“ Pray,’^ said his father, severely, “may I ask upon what 
grounds you consider yourself fit to become a legislator for your 
country? Not,” he continued, with angry sarcasm, “ but what 

there are some of the d dest fools in the House that you 

could meet with in a day’s journey.” 

“ I don’t know anything at present, of course, dad,” answered 
Leo, deprecatingly, “ but I can study, and I have lots of time be- 
fore me.” 

“ You think you’re going to become a great orator all at once, 
1 suppose,” remarked Mr. Vyner, who had fallen into an exceed- 
ingly bad temper, a most unusual occurrence. “ Why, when 
you had to make a speech to the tenants at your coming of age, 
you were as nervous as you could be, and blushed and stammered 
like a schoolgirl. They couldn’t hear you half way down the 
tent.” 

“ I dare say I shall mend of my shyness, sir,” answered Leo, 
good-humoredly. “ And I don’t suppose any great demand will 
be made on my oratorical powers at present. I don’t expect to 
be prime minister or leader of the opposition, for the next ten 
years, at all events,” he added, laughing. 

“That’s fortunate!” said his father, grimly. He was not to be 
joked into a good humor. ‘ ‘ I shouldn’t have wondered if you 
did. The conceit of boys nowadays passes all understanding. 
However, in case they should discover the genius that I am 
probably too great a fool to see, and want to give you a place in 
the cabinet all at once, you’d better take a trip to the seaside 
and fill your mouth with pebbles and roar to the waves! No 
doubt you’ll soon be a second Demosthenes and rant with the best 
of ’em!” 

With this Mr. Vyner pulled the bell sharply, and ordered his 
whisky-and-water in so irascible a tone that the butler was 
thunderstruck. 

“I do think,” he observed down-stairs, “ tliat master and Mr. 
Leo must have been having words, the old gentleman spoke in 
such a hirritable tone. But there! I don’t know, either, for Mr. 
Leo looked just as smiling and pleasant as ever.” 

“Bless his heart!” said the comely housekeeper, who doted on 
him, “ he always has a smile and a pleasant word for every one. 
I do wish I could see him looking as stout and strong as when he 
left home. He’s fell away dreadfully.” 

Nothing more was said by Mr. Vyner and Leo that night on 
the subject so distasteful to the former, nor was it alluded to 
again for some days, but Leo took an opportunity of seeing Mr. 
Vivian and having some private conversation with him. 

“ I am very glad to have had this talk with you,” Mr. Vivian 
said, ill conclusion, shaking Leo heartily by the hand. “ I had 


MIGNON, 


189 


no idea you held the views you do, nor, indeed, that j^ou had any 
political views at ail. I pitched upon you in my mind because I 
thought you would do less harm than a good many others ; now 
I shall look forward to see what good you can do. Don’t disap- 
point me. I don’t think you will.” 

To which Leo returned a modest answer. 

“ I know I am very young and extremely ignorant at present, 
but I can learn. I don’t mean to aim at great things; my only 
ambition is to be of some use, however humble, in the world. 
If I fail, it shall not be for want of trying.” 

Leo betook himself with ardor to the study of the books Mr. 
Vivian recommended. It was dry work sometimes, and a weari- 
ness to his flesh, but he persevered all the same. Sometimes he 
would wake up with a start, to find that the subject of the 
British Constitution had changed itself into Olga, her dark eyes 
were looking at him ’ from the page, her glowing lips were 
preaching eloquent themes in Ins ears. There were times when 
he would fling his book away, and burying his face in his arms, 
cry, “ Oh, my darling! my darling! how can I live my life 
through without you ?” 

The desire to see her became almost an agony; he grew white 
and thin, and wandered about like a restless spirit. He found it 
impossible to concentrate his thoughts upon any other subject. 
So at last he wrote to her, and asked permission to pay a visit to 
the Manor House. Two days later he had an answer dated from 
Curzon Street: 

Dear Leo, — I am in town for a week or so, and shall be very 
glad to see you. I am then going on a round of visits, and don’t 
expect to be back in Blankshire until after Christmas. Come 
and dine with me to-morrow, and we will go to a theater.” 

‘‘ Do you mind putting off shooting the Ashton coverts for a 
day or two, sir?” said Leo, looking up at his father as he laid the 
letter down. 

“ No, my boy; it makes no difference to me,” answered Mr. 
Vyner, in a cheerful voice. “ Where are you off to?” 

“ I have business in town,” was on Leo’s lips; but he had such 
a habit of speaking the truth ^that the words did not come 
readily. 

“ I want to go to town for a couple of days,” he said. 

‘‘All right. I’ll get you to take up my new gaiters and tell 
Roberts they don’t fit; and you might as well look in at Moore’s 
and see how they are getting on with that gun.” 

Mr. Vyner spoke in a frank, unsuspicious tone; inwardly he 
was saying: 

“ He’s going to see that infernal woman!” 


140 


MIONOK 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ Then after length of days he said thus: * Love 
For love’s own sake, and for the love thereof, 

Let no harsh words untune your gracious mood; 

For good it were, if anything be good, 

To comfort me in this pain’s plague of mine; 

Seeing thus how neither sleep nor bread nor wine 
Seems pleasant to me, yea, no thing that is 
Seems pleasant to me; only I know this. 

Love’s ways are sharp for palms o^ p teous feet 
To travel, but the end of such is sweet; 

Now do with me as seemeth you the best.” 

27i£ Two Dreams. 

Leo’s heart beat violently as he jumped from his liansom at 
the door of No. 1,000 Curzon Street. In the joy of his heart, he 
would have liked to supplement his cordial “How are you, 
Truscott?” by a shake of the hand. He had not seen Mrs. 
Stratheden since she bid him good-bye by the water-side that 
night: as he walked up-stairs behind Truscott, he was trembling 
with suppressed excitement. He was going to see her again!— 
he would not have given up this rapture, nor delayed it an hour, 
for the fairest offer which any tempter could have made him. 
Such it is to be young and in the first flush of the master- 
passion ! 

But the room into which he is ushered is empty. A minute 
or two of eager impatience, then the door opens and admits the 
queen of his heart. Leo feels a wild desire to throw himself at 
her feet, to commit some extravagance in the exuberance of his 
joy; but, fortunately, there are hidden laws which prevent a 
young gentleman in evening dress and a white tie from making 
a mountebank of himself; so he only goes forward with a height- 
ened color and kindling eyes, to take and hiss the dainty hand 
that is cordially outstretched to him. Then he sits down by 
Olga, not in the least conscious that he is embarrassing her by the 
fixity and ardor of his gaze. It is such intense pleasure to see 
her once again. Olga cannot but feel flattered, though the 
situation is a little awkward 

“ Why do you look at me so?” she says, with a rather embar- 
rassed smile. “Are you thinking how much plainer I am than 
the very flattering picture I was vain enough to send you ?” 

There is a dash of coquetry in Mrs. Stratheden’s little speech, 
for no one could mistake the admiration of which Leo’s eyes are 
eloquent. 

“Flattering!” he echoes. “How could auy picture flatter 
you ? A picture, whose eyes never change, and whose lips are 
dumb!” 

Olga laughs; there is a little ring of pleasure in her voice; how 
can she be a woman, and not care to be adored by a man whom 
she likes? It is the reciprocal liking, though, that makes 
pleasure of what without it is but a weariness to the flesh. The 
renderest love-speeches fall dull and tame on a woman’s ear it 
she be indifferent to the man who utters them. 


MTGNON. 


141 


Where have you learnt to make such gallant speeches, pray, 
sir?” asks Olga; and Leo answers: 

“Are they gallant ? My inspiration comes from you.” 

At this moment Mrs. Forsyth enters the room, nor is Leo 
alone again with Mrs. Stratheden once that evening. It is not 
quite what he had hoped for, but still it is delightful. Of the 
play he sees and hears nothing; he sits a little behind Olga’s 
chair in the box, absorbed in contemplation of her. The back 
of a small Greek head, the charming nuque, the little ear in 
which a diamond glistens like a dewdrop — these things give a 
lover far more ddight than the finest play ever put upon a 
stage. 

“ I want you to help me choose a horse to-morrow,” says Mrs. 
Stratheden, as Leo puts her into the brougham. “ Come for me 
at three, and we will go round and see if we can find anything 
to suit. And you will dine with us quietly at seven afterward, 
won’t you ?” 

It is a bright, clear October night, and, when the brougham 
has driven off, Leo stands for a moment hesitating as to what he 
shall do. There is a delightful tumult in his brain; he wants to 
reduce the sweet confusion to order, that he may think. He 
neither feels inclined for the club nor for bed; so he strolls 
along until he gets to Piccadilly, and then, unconsciously 
quickening his pace, proceeds onward in a straight line. So 
intent are his thoughts that when at last he is reminded of 
the fact that patent-leather shoes are not as comfortable for a 
constitutional as shooting-boots, he is well on his way to Ham- 
mersmith. A hansom is coming along, and he jumps into it, 
and drives baclj: to his hotel. He goes to bed, and dreams that 
Olga has written to say she will never see him again. He wakes 
in horrible agitation, succeeded by a delightful consciousness 
that it was a delusion and that in a few hours he will be with her. 
It is almost worth while having a bad dream for the delight of 
the awakening. 

The afternoon is spent in selecting the horse of which Mrs. 
Stratheden is or fancies herself in want. 

“What shall we do this evening?” she asks Leo. “ Shall we 
goto another theater?” Seeing how his face falls, she adds, 
“ Or shall we spend a quiet evening at home ?” 

“ I should like that very much better,” he answers; “ but will 
it bore you ?” 

“Not very much,” says Olga, smiling. “ Sans adieUy' as the 
carriage stops at Leo’s hotel. 

Mrs. Forsyth has for many years indulged a habit, both agree- 
able to herself and to Mrs. Stratheden’s friends, of retiring after 
dinner to take a nap. This habit, begun from a complaisant ‘idea 
of excusing an absence that might otherwise offend Olga’s deli- 
cacy by looking pointed, had ended in becoming a gratification 
which it was very unpleasant to forego. But Mrs. Forsyth had 
conceived a great jealousy of Leo, and was reluctant to give him 
the opportunity of being alone with Olga; so she departed so far 
from her usual custom and tact as to say, whilst they were 
awaiting his arrival before dinner; 


142 


MIONON. 


** Shall I take my nap as usual this evening?” 

Now, Olga quite saw thr ugh the question, and felt a shade 
vexed with her friend for putting it. She felt more vexed still 
vrith herself for ae faint blusl that overspread her face, and, 
turning to arrang me ^<^wers in oi^e of the vases, answered: 

‘ Do what is most agre^^able to yourself, ma chere,'' 

“ That will e to take my nap,” Mrs. Forsyth answered, 
promptly, hastening like p killfui general to repair her error. 
But she could not refrain from a Parthian shaft. “ I was afraid 
you might be a little bored. Boys are rather heavy to enter- 
tain.” 

“ I think Mr. Vyner has got beyond the awkv/ard stage of boy- 
hood,” answered Olga, with some joldness. 

“And I think whatever you think, my love,’ said Mrs, For- 
syth, cheerfully. “ 1 know you are so thoughtful that you would 
rather run the risk of being a little bored than of interfering 
with my indulgence.” 

Here Leo’s arrival put a stop to furtlier discussion. He had 
not intended to say a word to Olga about his plans for the fut- 
ure, nor even to hint at his chance of a seat in Parliament; but, 
once alone with her, the charm of her presence, her magnetic 
power over him, made his intentions melt into thin air, and he 
poured out all his thouglits to her. 

As she listened, a feeling of surprise and pleasure stole into 
her heart. She loved dearly to have power and influence, and 
she loved to use it for good. That she should have stirred up the 
dormant vigor of a mind so manly and yet so gentle and sensi- 
tive as Leo’s, gave her keen pleasure. As she listened to him, 
she felt capable of both loving and respecting him: a pang shot 
through her heart as the remembrance of the difference between 
their ages forced itself upon her. All her life Olga had had 
thoughts of doing active good in the world : that the thoughts 
had not been unfruitful, her bounty to all around her, and her 
large unostentatious charities, afforded ample proof. But the 
mere giving of money and food did not satisfy her: there is so 
much more to be done in the world than to give mere tempo- 
rary relief, she thought. For years it had been the desire of her 
heart to find a man who shared her opinions and had energy to 
carry them out. How often had she diffidently imparted her 
views to her lovers and been reasoned with, smiled at, or not 
understood! This want of sympathy with her cherished ideas 
had, more than anything, militated against their success. 

And here at last, but too late, was one after her own hqart, 
one whose chief charm was that his thoughts were hers because 
she had inspired them. She did not pause to reflect that the 
sympathy toward the rest of mankind which his love for her had 
bred might die away as it had sprung up; nor that theories 
which seem very noble and stirring to youth fade away before 
the harsh lessons of practical experience; she looked at the fire 
in his eyes, listened to the enthusiasm in his voice, and believed 
in him. It was part of Olga’s nature to put implicit faith in those 
she cared for. And indeed it would have been difficult for any 
one to look at Leo’s ardent face and doubt that whatever diffi- 


MIGNON, 143 

culties the future might throw in his way, his intentions were 
thoroughly sincere. 

“And what have you determined about going abroad?” Olga 
asked, at the close of a very exhaustive discussion of his plans. 

“ I must try to get my father used to the idea by degrees. 
But I hate to give him pain. And yet how is a man who has 
seen nothing of the world to feel and speak with authority on 
questions of universal importance to mankind ? I don’t believe 
all the hooks that were ever written could do half for getting one 
out of one’s narrow-mindedness and prejudice that six months’ 
travel in fresh places and among fresh people with one’s eyes 
open would do.” 

Looking at him, Olga for the moment felt a strong sympatliy 
with his father’s reluctance to part from him; and yet had she 
not herself suggested the idea of his traveling ? 

“ It is better that he should go,” she said to herself, as she felt 
a strange tenderness for him creeping into her heart. 

She rose, a little abruptly for her, and walked toward the 
piano. 

“ Stay where you are,” she said, with an imperious gesture, as 
he was about to follow her, “ I am going to sing to you.” 

And Olga sang in her sweet pathetic voice, songs that were all 
sad and plaintive, and Leo listened till his pleasure turned to in- 
tense pain. Ambition, hope of the future, all faded into despair; 
how could he live life through without this woman, whose pres- 
ence had become the only joy he knew ? 

The voice he loves ceases. Olga rises, and gently closes the 
piano. Leo is so still, she almost fancies he has gone to sleep. 
Then suddenly he gets up, and, coming toward her with a face 
so haggard and miserable it shocks her, he says: 

“ How shall I live my life without you ? Oh, Olga! have pity 
upon me!” 

She has sunk down on a chair, and he kneels at her feetl He 
is very young, very unworldly wise; he does not know the gentle, 
easy familiarity with which men of fashion woo, nor if he did 
would he essay to copy it; he knows nothing but that his heart 
is torn with agony at the thought of losing, of being parted from 
Olga. 

“ I have tried to fill my head with other thoughts; I have 
imagined that work and ambition could satisfy me; ^^nt it is all 
a hollow sham; nothing but you can satisfy me; there is no 
room in my heart for anything but you. I have boasted like a 
vain fool to you of the great things I would do, and you, if you 
were not so good and pitiful, would have laughed me to scorn 
for it; you know that I am a mere puppet in your hands, to do 
and think what you choose. Oh, if there were only not the gulf 
between us that there is! if you were poor, and I could work and 
toil for you, and win my way to something that would make me 
more worthy of you! but to feel that you stand so immeasurably 
far above me, so hopelessly out of reach of me, breaks my 
heart.” 

Olga’s mouth quivers; thex’e are unshed tears in her dark eyes; 
a dozen contradictory emoticms are passing through her breast. 


144 


MIGNON. 


If love like this could last— if it could only last I and then she 
remembers the story of “*La Femme Abandonnee.” Gaston was 
as impassioned as this; thousands of men have felt wdiat Leo 
feels, and have wearied of their love once attained, and marveled 
at and cursed it in after-years. 

Come and sit by me, Leo,-' she says softly. I have some- 
thing to say to you.-’ And he obeys her. She gives her cool 
white hand into his fevered clasp, and speaks soothingly to him, 
as a mother might to an unreasonable child whom she loves too 
well to chide. “You will not believe me — you will be angry 
with me — but I am going to tell you the truth, If there were 
no greater obstacle between us than those you name, if only my 
wealth and those other charms which you flatter me that I pos- 
sess stood between us, and I” (pausing) “ loved you, they would 
go for nothing wdth me. I think the greatest pleasure in life is 
to give to those you love; and no suspicion could ever enter my 
heart of the sincerity of the love of one whom I loved in re- 
turn.” 

Leo hangs breathless on her words: the first gleam of hope 
breaks through the night of his despair. 

“ There is a much greater obstacle than any of which you 
know,” Olga continues, with a slight quiver in her voice. 

‘ ‘ Even when I tell you, you will deny it, and fight against it, 
but it is there all the same, and it is so great a one that it would 
hinder me from giving you hope, even if I loved you.” 

She is so careful not to say she does, for then she knows all 
her arguments would be blown away like chaff before the wind. 
Leo is silent, but his eyes question hers. 

“ You are three-and-twenty, and I am twenty -nine: there is 
six years difference between us- -an overwhelming difference 
when the age is on the woman’s side. Don’t interrupt me. It 
is just as natural to you now to prefer a w^oman older than your- 
self as ten or fifteen years hence it will be to seek one who is 
young and fresh. Now you like a w^oman of the world; she 
puts you at your ease, makes you at home with yourself, enter- 
tains and surprises you with the knowledge that experience has 
taught her. In after life the reverse of all these things will rec- 
ommend itself to you. When you are five-and-thirty, in the 
very prime of manhood, I shall be past forty, that horrible 
period of a woman’s life when she is not too old still to have the 
desire for love, and yet has the agony of feeling she can no longer 
inspire it. It is different from a woman who has married young 
— her children are grown or growing up, her husband has 
aged with her; but picture to yourself the case of a woman in- 
tensely conscious of being faded and passee, struggling to keep 
alive in the man she adores the love that is the essence of her 
life, and knowing that the task is impossible, and that by her 
efforts, her anxiety, she is casting the last planks away from 
her. She becomes jealous, tyrannical; she hates all women 
younger and fairer than herself, she is ill-tempered and exact- 
ing wdth the man whose love is the only thing on earth she de- 
- sires, and knows not whether to hate him or herself most.” 

Olga has dropped her cool, reasoning tone, and speaks with a 


MIGNOK 


145 


vehemence quite foreign from her habit. Seeing the look of 
utter wonder in Leo’s eyes, she breaks off, and forcing a smile, 
says: 

“I have bewildered you. Was I looking like a second Medea? 
You wonder how I know these things — I who am not yet forty, 
and have not had any experience like that I describe. But I 
have a lively imagination: there are very few things I cannot 
picture to myself, and I know my intuitions are correct.” 

“ Yes,” answers Leo, looking intently at her with his frank 
blue eyes, “ you have bewildered and astonished me. Shall I 
tell you why ? It is to think that you should know yourself so 
little as to imagine that a man who had once cared for you could 
ever have a thought of any other woman. If you were to lose 
your beauty, which I don’t think you ever will, because it lies so 
much in your expression, you would only lose a tithe of your 
charm. When you are sixty you will have just the same sweet 
gracious ways that make one love you now, and, if it were pos- 
sible, you will be still more clever and delightful.” 

Olga smiles, but there is more of sadness than mirth in her 
smile. 

“ My dear boy,” she says, laying a caressing hand on the young 
fellow’s arm, “you think so now, and I know you are wrong. 
Do you imagine, though, it would be any consolation to me to 
hear you confess later that I was right ? If I reproached you 
with broken promises, you would have a right to turn upon me 
and say, ‘ But you knew exactly what must happen: you warned 
me of it yourself.’ Have you ever been in love before, Leo ?” 

“ Never,” he answers, emphatically. 

“ Well, but at all events you have read love-stories: you have 
heard of men ready to do anything in the world to win a woman, 
who, when they had won her, did not always remain faithful to 
her ?” 

“ They were not women like you,” answers Leo, loyally. 

“ My poor boy,” said Olga, pityingly, “ you are very much 
infatuated. 

“ I may be a fool,” he answers, eagerly, “ but you would find 
me a faithful one.” 



►auses for a minute. 


“ As I told you just now,” she says presently — “ I am twenty- 
nine years old. You will suppose that in all these years I have 
heard some declarations of love; don’t frown!” (laughing), “ Ah, 
Leo, you are like the rest of your sex : you try to persuade a 
woman she is something more than mortal, and yet you are dis- 
posed to quarrel with any other man who presumes to bear the 
same opinion. Why, my dear, when you were quite a child, I 
was a grown-up young lady, being flattered and spoiled and 
having my head turned. Well, since then I have been told 
several times every year by men that they could not possibly 
live without me. ’ 

Olga does not mean to be cruel; she fancies she is wounding 
herself so much by her confessions that Leo can have no right to 
be hurt. But he is suffering acutely. “ And yet,” she proceeds, 
with a shade of scorn, “ they have lived without me; several 


146 


MIONON, 


have married, and are, I believe devoted to their wives: and no 
one that I know of is going about with a broken heart for my 
sake.” 

“ Try me,” murmurs Leo, try me.” 

Mrs. Stratheden smiles. 

“That is the worst of it. I cannot try you. If I made the 
experiment, I should have to abide by you, and you by me; I 
could not return you as unsatisfactory,” 

Leo knows no longer how to plead; she is in a vein half jest- 
ing, half bitter. What shall he say to her ? If she had been 
angry at his presumption, he could have sued for forgiveness; 
but he is too ignorant of the world to know how to treat her 
present mood. 

“Don’t let us talk of this any more,” she says, rising, and 
walking away from him; then, returning and laying her hand 
gently on his shoulder. “ Every man has to go through the same 
thing — nearly every man, at least; it is like cutting his teeth or 
having the measles ” (laughing). 

Then suddenly she changes from gay to grave. 

“ Don’t think me heartless, Leo,” and the tears shine in her 
beautiful eyes, “ don’t think I do not value your love. I know 
it is true and honest, and I believe you would be faithful (as far 
as any man can be); but it is impossible. I will be your best 
friend, if you will have me. Love me if you will, but do not 
make your love a pain. Your wife ” (smiling through tears), 
“ your wife is a little girl in a pinafore now, when you marry 
her I shall be a nice gray- haired old lady.” 

“ My wife,” said Leo, huskily, coming a step nearer and look- 
ing down into her eyes with a strange, bitter expression, “ my 
wife is here, or nowhere; no other will ever be born for me.” 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded; 

Even like as a leaf the year is withered, 

All the fruits of the day from all her branches 
Gathered, neither is any left to gather. 

All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms, 

All are taken away; the season wasted. 

Like an ember among the fallen ashes.” 

Swinburne. 

So, after all, this visit that Leo had looked forward to as the 
opening of the gates of paradise did him no good. On the con- 
trary, it did him an immense deal of harm, for it scattered all 
the ideas that hard reading had put into his brain and immeasur- 
ably decreased his sympathy for the bodily woes of others, since 
he began to feel that any corporeal pain w^ould be pleasure com- 
pared with the agony he suffered in his mind. An older man, 
a man with more experience of women, would not have been 
plunged into despair by Olga’s words; on the contrary, they 
would have given him food for hope. But it was otherwise with 
Leo; lie only saw in them the delicacy which made her, instead 
of chiding his presumption, rather place the difficulties on his 


MIGNON. 


147 


side than on hers. “ Si jeunesse savait^ It is an excellent 
thing, however, when youth does not know, and is filled with 
doubts and fears instead of with undue confidence. 

Leo grew pale and thin (this stalwart young fellow who, twelve 
months ago, would have ridiculed the idea of anything but 
sheer illness taking the zest out of sport); he rode hard — not 
recklessly, for he was too manly, too full of vitality, to wish to 
shake life off because just now it was pain to him instead of 
pleasure; he tried to study, but found it impossible; the only 
thing that soothed him was fresh air and exercise. His usually 
vigorous appetite failed, and he smoked more than was good for 
him. All this time his father was watching him narrowly, and 
cursing in his heart tlie woman wdio had brought his boy to this 
miserable pass. If curses had any effect on the cursed, poor 
Olga would have probably pined away and died under the old 
man’s savage anathemas; but from her occasional letters to Leo 
it appeared that she enjoyed her usual health, which, however, 
was not at the best of times robust. 

Mr. Vyner had made up his mind that he would not seem to 
notice the change in his son; if he did, he felt there would be a 
loop-hole for Leo to bring forward the subject of his travels, the 
direst misfortune that could befall. And poor Leo did not go 
moping about and looking injured, but tried very hard to be 
bright and cheery, and to enter into all the topics which inter- 
ested his father, and had done himself until recently. The win- 
ter passed; all sport was over; it was then the father began to 
feel that something must be done, even if it involved the sacri- 
fice of his pet prejudices. And so one night he said, with an 
abrupt resolution which, from the pain it caused him, held more 
real pathos than a long and touching speech could have done: 

“This sort of thing wont do, my boy. feend for Bradshaw, 
pack up your traps, and set off on your travels as soon as you 
like.” 

Leo looked up quickly, heard the tremulous falter in the 
strong voice, saw the quiver in the muscles of the firm mouth, 
and the dimness in the kind eyes. 

“ No, no, dad,” he answers, gently; “ we won’t talk about my 
travels; you know I am going into Parliament instead.” 

He sighed wearily, unconscious that he did so — it had become 
such a habit of late. When Mr. Vyner was deeply moved, he 
was wont to assume a choleric air. But Leo w^as in the secret of 
this. 

“ Well, what the devil are you going to do? Do you think it’s 
manly, sir, to go puling and pining about like a miss in her teens 
in love with the curate ? There used to be a good old song in 
vogue in my time: 

“ ‘ If she be not fair for me, 

Wiiat care I how fair she be?’ 

and any man who had a particle of pluck or self-respect used to 
be of the same opinion. Is there only one woman in the world, 
I should like to know ? Stuff and humbug! Don’t stop shilly- 
shallying here! go and look about you. A strapping fellow likq 


148 


MIGNON, 


you isn’t likely to have to wait long for a woman’s smiles. Let 
this paragon of yours see you have eyes for somebody beside her- 
self; it will do more to bring her to her bearings than all the 
whining and whimpering in the world.” 

“ I did not know I wore my heart upon my sleeve,” Leo an- 
swered, with some dignity. “Have I complained or bored you 
with my lamentations because I cannot have the woman I 
love ?” 

“ Love! pshaw!’' cried Mr. Vyner, with much the accent of 
disgust he might have given vent to if any one had put a basket 
of stale fish in close proximity to him. “ Love! My good fel- 
low, if you could but have six months of this wonderful creat • 
ure, I’ll be bound at the end of it we shouldn’t hear much more 
about your love. No!” (replying to the first part of Leo’s 
speech), “ I did not say you had bored me with your lamenta- 
tions. I would rather you had; it does people good to talk about 
their woes. It is your long miserable face, and your fits of si- 
lence, that tell me what is going on in your mind. And, as I 
said before, if your good sense or your pride can’t do anything 
for you, why, in Heaven’s name, go and travel, and get drowned, 
or shot, or put out of your misery somehow!” 

“ I wish, sir,” said Leo, with a melancholy smile, “ you would 
try and divest your mind of the idea that some dreadful fate 
must necessarily overtake a man who goes for a six months’ 
trip abroad.” 

“And I wish,” retorted his father, “that you would divest 
your mind of the idea that junketing about to a lot of infernal 
uncivilized places is a better cure for the heartache than a few 
grains of resolution and common sense. However, I’ve said my 
say; go, and for God’s sake, if you do come back, come back a 
little more like the man you were ten months ago.” 

And Mr. Vyner, being greatly moved, and equally averse from 
betraying himself, went out, and banged the door with a violence 
that made everything in the room tremble. 

“ It is the only thing for me,” mused Leo, “and yet how can 
I leave the dear old fellow, when I know what pain and grief it 
will be to him!” 

So the subject was left, for the time being, in abeyance, and 
Leo proposed going to spend a month or two in town. It might be 
poison to him to be so near Olga, to see her often, but the poison 
would be sweet, and he could not go on eating his heart out at 
home with nothing to do. It was not that he had given up his 
studies, nor his ambition, nor his desire of doing good in the 
world; but, in the unsettled state of his mind, he could not bring 
that concentration to bear upon them that he knew was abso- 
lutely necessary. 

“After I have seen her again,” he argued to himself, “I 
shall be better. I wilt conquer this morbid restlessness.” 

Poor lad! he did hot guess wdiat new pangs were in store for 
him. 

Mrs. Stratheden was in town; he saw* her freqently, but, 
whether by accident or design, never alone. And almost when- 
ever he saw her the same man was with lier, jiaying her marked 


MIGNON, 


149 


attention, which it was evident she permitted, whether she en- 
couraged it or not. This man was Lord Harley. He was about 
forty, clever, distinguished-looking, had traveled a good deal, 
and had met Olga at a country-house in the winter. He had de- 
cided at once that she was the woman of all others to suit him; 
he had a great admiration and respect for her, believed thor- 
oughly in the power of his own wdll, and was fully determined 
that she should be Lady Harley. 

And Olga for various reasons was content to receive his atten- 
tions. In the first place, his conversation amused and interested 
her; in the second, he was so highly thought of in the world that 
his homage could not fail to flatter her; and in the third, she 
was furious with herself for allowing Leo to get so large a hold 
upon her thoughts and imagination, and was determined, coute 
que coute, to shake off his influence. And yet, despite her ef- 
forts and resolutions, the more she saw of Lord Harley the more 
enamored she became of Leo. The contrast between the boy’s 
passionate enthusiasm and the man’s grave self-possession 
struck her with a chill in Lord Harley’s presence. The man’s 
wooing made her feel weary and world-worn, as though the 
fires of youth had smoldered into ashes; Leo’s ardor, his devo- 
tion, his very misery, awakened a keen response in her, and 
stirred the pulses of the heart she had chosen to consider cold 
and dead. 

So much the more determined was she not to yield to the folly 
of which she had predicted the ending. To make herself 
stronger, she would frequently bring up in society the subjeet of 
women marrying men younger than themselves. She never 
heard but one opinion, and that coincided with her own. What 
can you expect ? If a woman commits such a piece of folly, 
she does it with her eyes open, and thoroughly deserves all she is 
sure to get. A woman has no right to take advantage of a boy’s 
infatuation; “ It is cruelty to him!” said some one; and this re- 
mark rankled horribly in Olga’s mind. 

“Would it be cruel,” she said to herself, in passionate con- 
tradiction of this last verdict, “when I can give him so much? 
— when I can make his future what he dreams it, and gratify 
his ambition and love, and help him to a name in the world, all 
at once ?” 

“ And when you have done all this,” answered another voice 
in her heart, “ he will be weary of you” (there is no burden on 
love so heavy as enforced gratitude), “and some other woman 
will reap the fruit of your sacrifices.” 

“ And what can this boy do for you ?” said Reason. “ He can 
add nothing to your position or importance; on the contrary, he 
will draw down upon you the world’s censure and ridicule; 
whereas a marriage with Lord Harley would be suitable and 
desirable in every respect; it would have the approval of your 
own common sense and of the world at large.” 

Why marry at all ? But Olga had grown tired of the loneli- 
ness of her life, and felt a positive necessity for changing it. She 
would have liked to keep Leo away, it went to her heart to see 


150 


MIGNON. 


how he suffered from his jealousy of Lord Harley, and how 
manfully he struggled to conceal it. 

“Do you know, Mrs. Stratheden,” said Lord Harley, one day, 
in the low, well-bred tone that was habitual to him, “ I always 
gave you credit for being free from the cruelties of your sex ?” 

“ And what has happened to convince you of your error?*’ 
asked Olga, smiling. 

“Young Vyner. Poor lad! I feel quite sorry for him. You 
must see how devoted he is to you, and how dreadfully he suffers 
from seeing any one else approach you. Don’t you think it 
would be kinder to put him out of his misery at once than to keep 
him hanging about in his present state of mind ?” 

Olga’s face is dyed with blushes. She feels confused, ex- 
asperated, in one. The low, calm tones of Lord Harley’s voice, 
and the clear indication in them of the security he feels in his 
own position and the hopelessness of Leo’s, jar upon her inex- 
pressibly. For a moment she feels tempted to retort, “I have 
given my whole heart to that poor lad, and am capable of com- 
mitting the greatest folly for his sake:” but prudence restrains 
her; she would not care to meet the incredulous smile, the po- 
litely restrained scorn, that would greet such a confession on her 
part. Besides, has she not resolved that she and Leo shall never 
be more to each other than they are now ? So she merely said, 
with assumed carelessness: 

“ Do you really think he is in love with me?” 

“I see you are a rer?/ woman,” remarked Lord Harley, and 
smiled. “ After all, how could anything be perfect unless it pos- 
sessed all the attributes natural to it ?” 

“And the attributes with which you endow me at the present 
moment are cruelty and hypocrisy, are they not ?” asked Olga. 

“ Do not put it so harshly. But if you pretend to ignore that 
l^oor young fellow’s devotion, I must at least think your modesty 
makes you insincere.” 

“ He will soon be cured of it,” remarked Olga, hoping to be 
contradicted; but Lord Harley bowed assent. 

“ But it is very bitter whilst it lasts.” 

“ Whilst it lasts! whilst it lasts!” repeated Olga, in a low scorn- 
ful tone. “ Pray, Lord Harley, does a man’s love ever last? and 
if so, what is the longest term of its duration ?” 

“ I think a man's love is capable of lasting his life, when he 
forms it after arriving at mature age, and it is not merely an 
ephemeral passion, but a sentiment approved by his judgment,” 
replied Lord Harley, looking at Olga with an expression which 
indicated that he himself illustrated the truth of what he 
affirmed, 

“ I don’t call that love,” uttered Olga— “ the calm, calculating 
feeling that says, ‘ This woman suits me, I will make her my 
wife,’ In love there must be passion, fervor, doubt,” And she 
raises eloquent eyes to his face, not thinking of him at all, nor 
how he may interpret her words. How he does interpret them 
is evident the next moment. 

“ Do you think,” he says, taking her hand quickly, “ that any 


MIGNON. 151 

man who loved you would be lacking either in passion or fervor 
if you gave him the right to feel it ?” 

A horrible feeling of repulsion comes over Olga. She, the self- 
possessed, dignified woman of the world, starts up and flies out 
of the room, as the veriest schoolgirl might do on a similar oc- 
casion, She is burning with disgust and anger — anger chiefly 
against herself. 

“ Oh, Leo, Leo! why are you not ten years older?” she mur- 
murs. 

Meantime, Leo is undergoing torments to which his previous 
sufferings had been as nothing. To think that Olga could not be 
his was pain keen enough; to think she might be another’s was 
agony unspeakable. And he could not but acknowledge that in 
every way Lord Harley was perfectly suited to her, and a man 
calculated to inspire the respect and affection of any woman. 
And, besides this, he had every other advantage— rank, position, 
wealth. “If I stay I shall go mad,” he said to himself every 
day; and yet he felt it impossible to go away in doubt. “ When 
it is settled, I will go,” he determined; but he had too much 
delicacy to ask any questions of Olga. 

Raymond was in town, and they often met. He was in love 
too; but, as the object of his passion was not legitimate, he 
could not very well pour out his woes to his friend, and Leo 
would on no account have profaned his idol by discussing her 
with Raymond. One day, at Lillie Bridge, Leo was introduced 
to Lady Bergholt, who received him very graciously. She was 
displeased with Raymond for some cause or other, and revenged 
herself in her usual manner, by making herself extremely agree- 
able to some one else. As Leo was a fine-looking young fellow, 
well-dressed and likely to be a credit to her, she turned her 
attentions to him, insisted upon driving him home, and invited 
him to dine and go to the opera with them. 

Mignon was one of those people who delight in being gracious 
to one person at the expense of another. On this occasion Ray- 
mond was the sufferer by her kindness to his friend. 

“ I dare say Mr. Vyner will relieve you of your attendance 
upon us to-night, Mr. L’Estrange,” she said, with a sweet smile, 
the sweeter because she knew she was tormenting her unhappy 
victim. “You were saying just now it would be so something 
hot at the opera — what was the word you used ? infernally, I 
think. You won’t mind it being infernally hot, Mr. Vyner, will 
you V and if you do, you will put up with a little inconvenience 
in a good cause ? You look good-tempered; not like poor Mr. 
L’Estrange; he is quite a martyr to his temper; so are his 
friends.” 

All this with rippling, bewitching smiles, w^hich to have re- 
sisted, a man must have been more than mortal. Leo thought 
her lovely, and was very well pleased to accept her invitation. 
Raymond, on the contrary, scowled, and his handsome features 
were twisted almost out of their beauty by his wrath. 

“ I have no doubt Mr. Vyner will not only attend you to-night, 
but accompany you home now,” he said furiously. “ You seem 
so mutually charmed, I should be sorry to be de trap,"' And he 


152 MIGNOK 

turned to walk away. But Leo linked his arm in his, and kept 
him there. 

“ Come, Raymond,” he said, good-naturedly, “ I cannot afford 
to lose an old friend because I have made a new one. Don’t 
punish him too much. Lady Bergholt. I am sure the most trop- 
ical heat at the opera would be less cruel to him than the frost 
of your displeasure.” He spoke gayly for the sake of saying 
something, not because he was aware of the state of his friend’s 
feelings. 

But all the way home Mignon continued to sting Raymond 
with darts and thrusts, every one of which goaded him to more 
wrathful indignation. In vain Lady Clover and Leo good- 
humoredly interposed; Mignon was bewitchingly, merrily, im- 
perturbably spiteful: Raymond bitter, angry, furious in pro- 
portion, 

“ Mr. Vyner,” says Mignon, “do you think it would be any 
use my stopping at a bonbon shop for Mr. L’ Estrange ? I have 
heard that sweets put fractious children in a good humor some- 
times.” 

“If you infused a little more sweetness into your remarks, it 
might be efficacious,” retorted Raymond, looking daggers at 
her. 

“ Now% Mr. Vyner, I appeal to you,” cried Mignon, “ have I 
said anything that is not sweet ? Mr. L’Estrange is bilious, I 
think; everthing turns acid upon him. I am thankful to say 
my husband is not of a bilious temperament; it must be dread- 
ful to have a bilious husband. Kitty, my dear, you had a 
narrow escape in not marrying Mr. L’Estrange; if he is so terri- 
bly cross with his friends, what would he be with a wife ?” 

It was impossible for Leo and Kitty to help laughing at Mign- 
on’s kittenish mischievousness, but with Raymond it was no 
laughing matter. For the time being, his love was turned into 
hatred, as love which is not pure will turn when it is wounded. 
Mignon continued her provocations all through dinner, until 
Raymond took refuge in sullen silence. Sir Ti*istram was dining 
at Greenwich with Fred Conyngham; SirJosias, whom the opera 
bored, was dutifully devotmg the evening to his mother; so the 
four young people dined and went to the opera together. Here 
matters grew worse. Raymond was ousted from his usual place 
behind Lady Bergholt’s chair, and Leo reigned in his stead, 
Mignon had nothing of the least importance to say to him; truth 
to tell, she found him rather heavy, since he did not pour into 
her ear the exaggerated flatteries to which she was accustomed; 
but all the same she wreathed her face in bewitching smiles and 
turned frequently to whisper to him, with the amiable inten 
tion of annoying Raymond. 

“ Mr. L’Estrange,” she said, sweetly, as he was about to leave 
the box, “ will you tell Lord Threestars that I want him, if you 
happen to see him ?” 

“ Certainly,” answered Raymond, stiffly, changing his mind 
about going, and resuming his seat; “ though what on earth any 
one can see in an ass like that is beyond me.” 

“ He is so good-looking, and he has a title,” answered Mignon , 


MIGNOK 


153 


then, with a look of the raciest impertinence at Raymond, she 
added, “ Of the two, I think an ass with a title is preferable to 
one without.” 

Thank you,” said Raymond, fiercely. I suppose that is in- 
tended for me.” 

“ But I did not say Lord Threestairs was an ass,” answered 
Mignon, sweetly. On the contrary, I think him charming.” 

This was too much for Raymond, and he retired in high 
dudgeon. 

“ Really, Mignon, you are too bad!” cried Lady Clover. “ Why 
do you take such delight in teasing that poor boy ?” 

“My dear,” Lady Bergholt made answer, with a face of im- 
perturbable gravity, “ I am trying to smooth the way a little for 
his poor wife when he gets one; he must not be encouraged in 
his overbearing ways.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ He said, and his observation was just, that a man on whom Heaven 
hath bestowed a beautiful wife, should be as cautious of the men he 
brings home to his house, as careful of observing the female friends with 
whom his spouse converses abroad. Wherefore Lothario observed, every 
married man has occasion for some friend to apprise him of any omission 
in her conduct; for it often happens that he is too much in love with his 
wife to observe, or too much afraid of offending her to prescribe the 
limits of her behavior in those things the following or eschewing of 
which may tend to his honor or reproach, whereas that inconvenience 
might be easily amended by the advice of a friend.” Cervantes. 

Some one enters the box, and Kitty turns her attention to the 
new-comer. “By the way,” asks Mignon, leaning back and 
speaking in a low tone to Leo, “is there not some romantic story 
about your getting shot at Mrs. Stratheden’s and her sucking the 
poison out of your wound, or doing something equally wonder- 
ful?” 

“ Mrs. Stratheden saved my life,” answers Leo, his eyes light- 
ing up as they always do when her name is mentioned. And, 
being young and ignorant, he proceeds to expatiate upon Olga’s 
heroism, thinking, because his interlocutor is a woman, and 
young and beautiful, he is secure of her sympathy. 

“ How horrid!” utters Mignon, with a shiver of disgust. “ She 
must be very strong-minded.” 

There is an indescribable accent of depreciation in her voice, 
as though Mrs. Stratheden had committed an unfeminine action, 
shocking to the feelings of her sex. Leo feels as though he had 
been suddenly plunged into cold water. 

“ 1 could not have done such a thing,” proceeds the fair one, 
with a little meritorious air: but I believe people’s nerves get 
strong as they get old.” 

Leo makes no answer; he is positively stupefied. 

“ What do you think of her?” continues Mignon, in an indif- 
ferent tone, as though the subject were not very engrossing. 
“ Ladylike, but passee, is she not? and fancies herself enor- 
mously?” 


154 


MIGNON, 


Mignon has an uncontrollable spite against Mrs. Stratheden: it 
breaks out whenever her name is mentioned. She has gathered 
from Leo’s manner that he admires her, and resents it. 

Leo pulls himself together after the wrench his feelings have 
sustained. He has been charmed by Lady Bergholt and dazzled 
by her beauty, but in the space of thirty seconds all her charm 
is gone, he feels toward her as he might have done toward some 
lovely Lamia who had suddenly revealed herself in her natural 
shape. 

“I think Mrs. Stratheden simply the most perfect woman in 
every way that I ever met,” he says, in tones of suppressed pas- 
sion. 

From that moment Mignon hates him. 

“ Really,” she says, raising her eyebrows, and reflecting how 
she may best hurt him. Ah, I think I remember hearing you 
had fallen desperately in love with her. How odd it is that boys 
always fall in love with women old enough to be their mothers! 
I suppose it is a dreadful blow to you that she is going to marry 
Lord Harley.” 

Mercifully for Leo, the door opens, and Lord Threestars comes 
in. From that moment Mignon ignores every one else, and Leo 
takes the chair by Lady Clover. 

“ Did I hear Mrs. Stratheden’s name ?” she asks him; and do 
you know her? Is she not charming ? Was it really you whose 
life she saved ? Ah! she is a woman in ten thousand. I love 
her better than any one I know.” 

The mantle of Mignon’s loveliness has fallen on Kitty’s shoul- 
ders, at least in Leo’s eyes. 

“ She is not a bit spiteful or little-minded, as a great many of 
us are, I am afraid,” pursues Lady Clover, with an enthusiasm 
that is perfectly genuine. “ And you have no idea how much 
good she does among the poor, and how kind she is. They say 
her estate is the best managed, and her people the best off in 
Blankshire. She sees to everything herself, and won’t leave it 
to her steward. I wonder she has never married,” Kitty rattles 
on: “ she would make the most charming wife in the world. If 
I were a man, I should fall on my knees before her and stop 
there until she consented to marry me.” 

“ Is it true that she is going to marry Lord Harley?” asks Leo, 
in a low, faltering voice. 

“ I do not know. She denied it when I asked her; but then 
we always do that sort of thing, you know, until everything is 
definitely settled,” answers Kitty, with an oracular nod. “ It 
would be a charming match— so perfectly suitable in every 
way,” 

Leo is so acutely conscious of the truth of this remark that he 
can make no answer to it. 

Raymond only reappears at the closing scene of the opera. 
Lord Threestars has left some time ago, and Lady Bergholt is so 
much disgusted with Leo that she takes Raymond back into her 
favor, lets him put on her cloak, smiles upon him, and sends 
him up from his wrath into a seventh heaven, 


MIGNON. 


155 


'' Let’s walls as far as Pratt’s!” he says to Leo, after they have 
put the ladies into their carriages. “ Is she not lovely ?” 

“ Very,” replies Leo, in a curt, cold tone, that seems tc grudge 
the praise it cannot but give. 

“ She is the loveliest woman in England!” says Raymond, with 
an enthusiasm which makes ample amends for Leo’s coolness, 
" Can’t you undeimand a man losing his head about a creature 
like that V” 

Leo looks at him, and answers frankly: 

“ I cannot understand any man losing his head about a woman 
who is another man’s wife.” _ 

“ Most virtuous rustic!” scoffs Raymond, gayly. Have you 
not lived long enough in society to see how small an obstacle a 
husband is in this happy age ? I assure you Sir Tristram isn’t 
half as much in my way as that conceited fool Threestars.” 

“Of course I know you are jesting,” Leo answers, gravely: 
“ but don’t you think it’s a pity to talk like that abou ta woman 
whom you admire ? It must lower her even in your own estima' 
tion.” 

Raymond becomes intensely serious at once. ^ 

*• I may have spoken in a jesting tone,” he says, “ but God 
knows it is true that I worship the ground that woman walks on, 
and that at times I feel as near as a man can do to blowing my 
brains out about her.” 

“ Then,” Leo answers, sternly, I can no more understand a 
man giving way to such a feeling for his friend’s wife than 1 
could understand his stealing the jewels from his safe, or the 
horses out of his stable.” 

“ How can you help it,” retorts Raymond, passionately, if 
you meet a woman too late, when accident has made her the 
wife of another man? It was a shameful marriage, tying a 
young thing like that to a man much more than double her 
own age: it is more— it is a sacrifice revolting to human nat* 
ure.” ^ 

“From all I hear,” says Leo, “Lady Bergholt married her 
husband of her own free will, and with her eyes open. She 
seems perfectly happy, and most keenly alive to the privileges 
of her wealth anti station.” 

“She was such a child,” mutters Raymond; “she did not 
know what love was.” 

“ And do you want to teach her? Do you want to sow the 
seeds of unlawful passion in her heart, and change her from the 
light-hearted girl she is now to a miserable, guilty, despised 
creature ? If that is your idea of love, I confess I dorCt under- 
stand it.” 

“It is all very well for you to talk, who have not been 
tempted,” answers Raymond, scornfully- “ Try and put your- 
self in my place. Suppose Mrs. Stratheden were married, in- 
stead of being free as she is.” 

“ Do not bring her name in,’' mutters Leo, huskily. “ I' fcnoio 
this, that no power on earth should induce me to harm a hair of 
the woman’s head I loved.” 

“ Fine doctrinal” scoffs Raymond. “ And I know that love is 


156 


MIGNON, 


a thing uncontrollable, and that when two beings meet whom 
nature has destined for each other, all must go down before it, 
whether it be rank, or social ties, or ” (in a low voice) even the 
marriage bond itself.’’ 

Leo turns to look at his friend, and sees a face so marred and 
changed with passion that he is absolutely, aghast. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Raymond,” he says, with great earnest- 
ness, “ don’t give way to thoughts like these! Haven’t we had 
instances enough lately of this sort of thing and its results? 
Why, you and Lady Bergholt are the last people in the world 
to suit each other, even if you had met when you were both 
free.” 

“You only judge by her little capricious ways,” says Ray- 
mond; “ they mean nothing, and I am a fool to be put out by 
them. I believe” (lowering his voice) “they are only assumed 
to conceal her real feelings.” 

Leo does not believe anything of the sort. He believes that, 
fortunately for herself and all parties concerned. Lady Bergholt 
has no passion but vanity, and that she is in her heart as indif. 
ferent to Raymond as even her husband could wish her, and is 
simply amusing herself at his expense. But Leo is wise enough 
to keep his opinion to himself; no man who imagines himself 
the victim of a grande passion likes to be told that the object of 
his devotion does not care two straws about him, least of all a 
man like Raymond. 

So he says. “ My dear old fellow, why don’t you put yourself 
out of the way of temptation ? If it is as bad as all this, nothing 
less than the Atlantic is wide enough to separate you from her. 
Come with me; I have made up my mind to go, and will start at 
once, if you will go with me.” 

But Raymond is a spoiled child who sees no beauty in self- 
sacrifice. His eyes kindle, and there is the fervor of strong pas- 
sion in his voice, as he answers: 

“Why should one fly from the prospect of the most exquisite 
happiness that life can give ?” 

“ When I was quite a lad,” says Leo, with apparent irrelevancy, 
“ 1 was staying in the house with a husband and wife 1 never 
saw two people hate each other in the way they did. I don’t 
think boys, as a rule, notice those things very much, but it used 
to take away my appetite only to listen to the things they said 
to each other. There was no vulgar quarreling, but every word 
conveyed some cutting sting, and the hatred in their eyes was 
unmistakable. Years afterward I heard their story. She had 
run away from her husband with this man; it had been a case of 
the most violent infatuation on both sides. The first husband 
got a divorce; it was the man who probably said, as you do, that 
Nature had destined them for each other who was her husband 
when I met her. And, forgive me, old fellow, for saying so, but 
it is just such a couple I fancy you and Lady Bergholt would 
make if— as I trust in Heaven they won’t— your present desires 
could be fulfilled.” 

Raymond laughs lightly. 

“As I said before,” he answers, “ you judge from the silly. 


MIGNON. 


157 


childish nonsense you saw to-day. If ever my darling should be 
mine, you will see how you misjudged us.-’ 

“ You do not love her,” says Leo, hotly, or you would not dis- 
honor her by speaking of such a possibility to another man.” 

Before you judge others, wait until you are in the same posi- 
tion yourself. You may be before long,” utters Raymond, sig- 
nificantly. 

I A hot flush overspreads Leo’s face. 

“ I don’t want to make myself out better than other men,” he 
says, “ but sooner than bring disgrace or dishonor on the head 
of the woman I love, I would put a bullet through my brain.” 

“ It is very easy to talk,” remarks Raymond, contemptuously; 
and so they part. 

On the same evening Sir Tristram and Fred Conyngham are 
dining together at the Trafalgar at Greenwich — their first tete^ 
a-tete dinner since the marriage. Fred does not frequent his 
friend’s house much ; there is little love lost between him and 
Mignon. A very few meetings suffice to show her that he had 
played the wolf in sheep* s clothing on the day when he enter- 
tained her and Regina at lunch, and she is perfectly aware that 
he disapproves almost everything about her but her beauty. 
The feeling is more than reciprocated. She dislikes everything 
in him; his sarcasms penetrate and sting her: she is not witty, 
and, in her endeavor to retaliate, is not unfrequently rude. 
Never will she forgive him a remark provoked one day by her 
contemptuous treatment of Sir Tristram and himself, “ two 
dried-up old fogies,” as she politely called them. 

It is quite right for beauty and youth to praise themselves,” 
said Fred, looking at the lovely, scornful face before him, 

since they are entirely due to the meritorious efforts of those 
who possess them, and are imperishable.” 

“Anyhow, it is better to be young and lovely than old and 
plain, don’t you think ?” asked Mignon, maliciously. 

“ Perhaps,” Fred answered, letting fall on her one of those 
calm, reflective glances that his friends, much more his foes, 
know to be dangerous. “ And yet, I sometimes think, God gives 
great beauty to some women as a sort of compensation for hav- 
ing denied them every other grace.” 

Mignon blushed scarlet. The victory remained with Fred; 
but it cost him dear. 

Sir Ti'istram is sorely vexed at this antagonism between the 
two people whom of all others he would like to see friends. It 
seems to him that Mignon never appears to so little advantage 
as when Fred is present, and the only time he ever feels disposed 
to be angry with his friend is when he is exercising his satire 
upon Mignon. 

Fred groans inwardly as he sees how entirely Sir Tristram is 
subjugated by his lovely wife; he anathematizes his folly, and 
soliloquizes jeremiads as to the future. 

“ The old proverb,” he reflects. “ Set a beggar on horseback 
and he will ride to the devil. If the beggar is of the female sex, 
so much the sooner will she arrive at her destination, and so 
piany the more companions will she carry along with her. Why 


158 


MIONON, 


should a man turn fool because a woman is fair ? a man in the 
prime of life, in the zenith of his understanding. A few grains 
more of white and red in the skin, a shade more color in the 
eyes, an imperceptible increase in the usual length of an eye- 
lash, a curve here, a straight line there— to think that upon 
these trifles hangs a woman's power over a man, the power of 
turning him from a reasoning being to a fool! Bah! I hate 
pretty women!'’ (with a gesture of disgust), “ A woman has a 
small red mouth and regular teeth, and she may laugh from 
morning to night at the greatest inanities or the most serious 
subjects without being taken for the idiot she is.” (No doubt 
Fred is thinking of Mignon.) “ She may be heartless, ignorant, 
rude— no matter: she has a crowd of fools to admire her and 
take the toads that fall from her mouth for pearls and diamonds. 
What good have beautiful women ever done? Only set the 
world by the ears, as far as I know. Poor old Tristram! he is 
so proud because he owns this lovely bit of flesh and blood I 
Owns it, indeed! rather it owns him; and a pretty tyrant he will 
find it before long, if he does not already. Minx! to think he 
took her from her cottage home and her shabby frocks, and now 
she is recklessly flinging his money out of windows with both 
hands. Poor Tristram! Why could not that driveling old uncle 
have left his money to charities, instead of to a man who didn't 
want it? and then my lady would have been wandering about 
the Surrey lanes in her old frock to this day, and I should still 
have possessed a friend. Ah” (sighing), “we shall never be 
David and Jonathan any more, never love each other with the 
love passing the love of woman. Perhaps, though, if women in 
David’s time had been like they are now, the two wouldn’t have 
been friends so long!” 

Dinner is over,. and the two men are sitting by the open win- 
dow, watching the big, brown-sailed barges glide by. It is high 
tide, the breeze makes a strong ripple on the water; twilight is 
creeping on; lights come out here and there; altogether, it is a 
picturesque scene. Happily for the guests, the urchins cannot 
turn it into pandemonium to-night with their weird capers in 
the mud and their shrill rasping cries of “ Chuck out, sir.” 

There is not a great deal of conversation between the friends; 
each is conscious of a slight gene, which one deplores and the 
other is Half disposed to resent. 

There has been silence for a few minutes, during which each 
has puffed thoughtfully at his cigar with a more reflective air 
than is entirely due to an unexceptionable dinner. Fred is the 
first to break it. From his tone, it is evident that his remark is 
no irrelevant one, but a continuation aloud of his thoughts. 

“Well, Tristram, is it a perfect success?” 

A little cloud crosses his friend's face, as though he would 
rather the subject had not been mooted. But he answers, with 
slow gravity: 

“ Well, yes; I think I may say it is.” 

“And you don’t regret it ? don’t wish it undone ? don’t think 
lingeringly of this time last year ?” 

“No.” - . . u'':- 


MIONOK 


169 


“ Then you are j^erfectly happy ?' 

Sir Tristram smiles his pleasant smile. 

“ My dear Fred, is any one perfectly happy?” Are you per- 
fectly happy ?” 

“II Of course not,” says Fred, with a touch of sarcasm; “ but 
then I am a poor devil of a bachelor. I thought the possession 
of a lovely woman whom one adored was supposed to confer 
utter and perfect bliss.” 

“ My dear old Fred, do you think life would be worth having 
if one did not indulge extravagant anticipations sometimes ? I 
know what you want; you want me to say, ‘ You were right, and 
I was wrong. I was a fool, and I humble myself before your 
superior wisdom in sackcloth and ashes.’ But I cannot say any- 
thing of the sort. I do not regret my marriage in the very least; 
and if the time had to come over again, I should do exactly the 
same.” 

“ Oh, then, that is all right,” replied Fred, in a tone which, 
however, betrays very little satisfaction. There is a pause, broken 
presently by Sir Tristram. 

“ You are prejudiced against my wife, Fred, and I cannot tell 
you how it grieves me. You might, for the sake of old times, 
try to conquer it and feel kindly toward her.” 

“ It is just for the sake of old times that I can’t conquer it,” 
answered Fred, brusquely. “ If, having married the best fellow 
in the world, she was grateful to him for the benefits he heaps 
upon her and tried to make him happy or studied anything 
earthly but herself, I should be ready to think her perfect too; 
but when I see ” 

“ Don’t, Fred!” interposes Sir Tristram, hastily. “ I could not 
bear a word against her, even from you; and you must not judge by 
the little petulant ways you have seen. I don’t know how it is, but 
tliere seems to be an inborn antagonism between you two; each 
appears to have the knack of making the other show to the least 
advantage.” 

Our antagonism is very easily explained,” replies Fred. 
“ Lady Bergholt abhors any one who is too candid to feed her 
with sugared lies and who does not seem to think all she says 
and does perfect, and I hate equally to see a woman trading 
upon her beauty and using it to attain her own selfish ends and 
to ride rough-shod over other people’s feelings.” 

“You are unjust,” says Sir Tristram, w^armly. “It is only 
natural that so very lovely a woman should be a little spoiled; 
every one conspires to make her so.” 

“ Then I like to be diiferent from every one. Do you suppose 
people will feel the same toleration for her caprices fifteen or 
tw^enty years hence? for you know the faults and follies don’t 
fade with the beauty, but only become more accentuated. That 
is the sort of woman you may see any day in the park, at races, 
balls — everywhere in fact— painted and dyed, ridiculed and 
despised, agonizing after her lost youth, struggling vainly to 
combat Time’s handiwork. This is what fools make of pretty 
w^omen, and what, thank God, I have not on iny conscience. 
A woman ought to be taught wha t a gracious thing beauty is 


1()0 


MIGNOK 


when modestly worn, not to make it a cloak for the most odious 
selfishness and disregard of others.” 

Sir Tristram smiles. 

My dear Fred, I am not going to quarrel with you. I think 
you are jealous. And indeed you look at the dark side of the 
picture, and forget what a charming thing it is for a man who 
has passed his youth to have the constant presence of a lovely 
fresh young girl, and to feel, when you see all the admiration 
she excites, that you are the happy possessor of so much beauty. 

Fred looks up shrewdly. 

“ I confess,” he answers, “ that being a man who has passed 
his ycuth, it would not give me pleasure to see my wife perpetu- 
ally surrounded by men who have not — young L’ Estrange, for 
instance.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ Yet did I see Apame sitting at the right hand of the king. 

“And taking the crown from the king’s iiead, and setting it upon her 
own head, she also struck the king with her left hand. 

“ And yet for all this the king gaped and gazed upon her with open 
mouth; if she laughed upon him, he laughed also, but if she took any 
displeasure at him, the king was fain to flatter that she might be recon- 
ciled to him again. 

“ O, ye men, how can it be but woman should be strong, seeing they do 
thus?” Book of Esdras. 

A CLOUD gathers on Sir Tristram’s brow. 

“ Fred,” he says, presently, with a quiver about the muscles of 
his mouth, “I can hardly imagine that you asked me to dine 
with you to-night for the sake of saying things it would pain 
me to hear.” 

“ No, upon my soul!” answers Fred, “ you would hardly think 
that of me. I don’t believe any one on this earth loves you half 
so heartily as I do, or would do as much for you. That is just 
why I take upon myself the unpleasant task of mentor. I have 
something to say to you; say I am wrong, think I am wrong, 
but still let me put in my word of warning. I understand your 
motives thoroughly, I know they are all generous and good, but 
there is an old saying: ‘ Be just before you are generous.’ You 
have taken a young girl from a comparatively obscure position, 
and given her what to her must be wealth unbounded and per- 
fect liberty. More than that you have surrounded her with 
temptations. Now, it must be a very wise and a very strong 
head that would not be turned by all this. Don’t you think, 
Tristram, that you have incurred an immense responsibility?” 

A pained look comes into the deep-gray eyes. 

“ Now that you speak out frankly and fairly,” says Sir Ti*is- 
tram, in a low voice, “ I will answer you in the same spirit. 
“ Yes, I do think it is a heavy responsibility, and I suffer more 
than I can tell you from the thought. For my own sake, I have 
not a single regret about my marriage; I thank God for my hap- 
piness every day; but I do regret it bitterly at times for hers. I 
had a wild idea that I should be able to inspire her with some- 


MIGNON. 


161 


thing like the love I felt myself, I was a fool for thinking so, 
what should a gay light-hearted young girl feel for a man older 
than her father, except perhaps a good-natured toleration, or, if 
he is worthy of it, a dull respect ? What can she do when she 
is surrounded by good-looking, cheery young fellows, but con- 
trast them with me, and accuse me in her heart of having cut 
her off from the love and happiness she might othewise have 
known? That is why I leave her unrestrained; that is why I 
let other men come and go as they will; that is why I school 
myself to bear the pain of seeing her smile and look glad when 
other men approach her.” 

Fred is more touched than he would care to show. 

“ It is a noble idea,” he says, “ but a very Quixotic one, and 
it is open to two interpretations. A man has no business to seem 
careless of his wife's honor. Be sure no one gives him credit 
for such chivalrous sentiments as yours. A young, inexperi- 
enced girl like Lady Bergholt, who cannot yet know much of 
the world’s ways, wants to be guided by some one who does; if 
3 ^ou allow her free and unrestrained intercourse with young 
men. you will have no right to complain if you discover one day 
that the men have abused your friendship, and your wife your 
confidence. I know what I have said scores of times about giv- 
ing advice to a friefid, and about meddling with matters that 
don’t concern me, but when it is your own familiar friend, as 
Jonathan was to David, it is different.” And Fred gulps down 
his very unusual emotion. 

“Are you still thinking of Raymond L’Estrange?” asks Sir 
Tristram, in a low voice. 

“ Yes, I am,” Fred answers, firmly. “ I do not believe for an 
instant that your wife cares two straws for him; but no one can 
see them togetiier for ten minutes without being perfectly aware 
of what his feelings are for her; and it can hardly be an edify- 
ing sight for a husband, or his friends, however great a tribute 
it may be to the lady’s charms.” 

“ What can I do?” asks Sir Tristram, in a pained voice. “ Of 
course I have seen it; 1 have felt almost sorry for him, poor lad, 
to see how Mignon teases and torments him. I am perfectly 
certain she cares nothing for him now; and it seemed to me that 
if I made any remark about it, or prevented his coming so often 
to the house, it might awaken her interest in him.” 

“ I would not have him hanging about in the way he does,” 
said Fred, resolutely. “Take my word for it, that too much 
confidence and generosity, where those you are dealing with do 
not possess an equal degree of it, may have much the same re- 
sult as foolhardiness.” 

Further conversation is put a stop to by an intimation that the 
phaeton is at the door, and an overcharge in the bill sends Fred’s 
thoughts into another current. Not so with Sir Tristram: he 
broods over the matter all the way to town, and in his study 
after he has reached home. My lady has not returned, and her 
husband sits, nervous and wretched, trying to “screw his cour- 
age to the sticking- point.” Half an hour after midnight, Mignon 
comes in, radiant and good-humored; to take advantage of her 


162 MIGNOK 

mood seems an act of meanness, but Sir Tristram feels as though 
it must be done. 

He waits until he thinks the maid will have performed the 
task of brushing out the golden locks— no easy one, as my lady 
is intolerant of the slightest jerk from the comb— and then 
knocks diffidently at her door. 

“ Come in. Pray, are you going to sit up all night?” asks 
Mignon, with wide-open eyes, as she remarks that he is still in 
evening dress. “ Is anybody dead ? — are you going to a funeral ? 
or are you trying to get your face to an expression befitting the 
Sabbath ?” 

‘•I only want to speak to you, dear, when you are dis- 
engaged.” 

Is it anything you cannot say before Nowell ? Really, I feel 
quite nervous. Make haste and go, Nowell! No, stay, I don’t 
think it can be so important as my hair. Would you mind com- 
ing back in ten minutes, Tristram ?” 

“ May I not stay and see the operation ?” he says, coming for- 
ward and looking lovingly at the wealth of golden hair spread 
over the fair shoulders. He thinks of the old lines again: 

“ Entre or et roux 
Dieu fit ses longs chevenx.’*’ 

“ Certainly not,” replies the fair one, imperiously, whilst her 
abigail makes the reflection that she “ wouldn’t be bordered 
about so ” if she were Sir Tristram. 

When he returns, my lady receives him with a yawn, and a 
less amiable expression of countenance. Having reflected upon 
the matter, she has come to the conclusion that she is going to 
be found fault with. 

“ My darling,” he says, taking her reluctant hand and stooping 
to kiss her, “ I want to say something to you. I am going to 
blame, not you, but myself; "and I want you to listen tome fora 
Jiioment.” 

“Well?” remarks Mignon, in a tone that is the furthest re- 
move from inviting, a confidence. 

Sir Tristram does not feel encouraged; but he has put his hand 
to the plow and must go on. 

“ I have,” he proceeds*, with some nervous hesitation, “as I 
think I have proved to you, my dear child, the most perfect con- 
fidence in you.” And he fills up the pause by kissing the slim 
hand that is perfectly unresponsive. 

“ I have not the slightest idea what you are going to say,” re- 
marks Mignon, coolly; “but 1 am perfectly certain that what- 
ever you have in your head was put there by your delightful 
friend, Mr. Conyngham.” 

Sir Tristram stands convicted. 

“ It is nothing,” he says, awkwardly, “ but what was there be- 
fore. Do not be angry; it is no reflection on you; on the con- 
trary, it is a tribute to your loveliness. I cannot expect that 
what I find beautiful and sweet will not seem so to others.” 

“ Pray come to the point,” says Mignon, in a hard voice, with 


MIONON. 


smoldering lire in her eyes. Is it Lord Threestars or Mr. 
L’Estrange ?” 

“ My dear,” answers Sir Tristram, already feeling a touch of 
remorse, and anxious to avoid wounding her feelings in the 
smallest degree, “ no one is more glad and proud than I am to 
see you admired: but you are so young, you know nothing about 
the world, and people are so censorious.” 

Mignon is all ablaze with wrath, she has been a tyrant ever 
since her marriage, and has no idea of yielding up a fraction of 
her despotic sway. So she breaks out: 

That hateful man has been telling lies about me! that is what 
he asked you to dimmer for. I suspected as much. He shall 
never, jiever come into my house again while I am here. Why 
did you maiTy me? You know I did not want to marry you, 
and you promised me that 1 should do just as I liked and go 
everywhere and amuse myself. And now I dare say you want 
to shut me up and keep me from seeing any one; but I will kill 
myself first. Send me home. I was happy before I knew j'ou.” 

Now, if Sir Tinstram had been a sensible man and known how 
to manage my lady, he would have taken her at her word, and 
said: “ Very well, my dear; if you think you would be happier 
at home, by all means go there;” and Madame Mignon, who had 
not the slightest idea of leaving all the desirable things her hus- 
band provided, would have abated somewhat of her violence, 
and perhaps become humble and submissive. It is a great mercy 
for some people who talk big and bluster, that others don’t know 
how easily they might be brought down from their pinnacle: 
but, then, if every one knew how to manage every one else, life 
would not be the exciting and turbulent affair it is. You, for in- 
stance, madame, when you have quarreled with your lover and 
bade him begone and never see you more, you know that did he 
but get as far as the hall door you would make some excuse to 
call him back; but he, poor fellow! does not know it, and so, 
instead of taking his hat. and feigning to depart, he remains to 
plead and to be browbeaten. 

So in the case of Mignon and Sir Tristram; it is the girl who 
knows how to manage the man, and the man of the world who 
is a mere plaything in the girl’s hands. 

“ My dearest,” he says, penitently, trying to take her in his 
arms, an attention which she most vigorously and successfully 
resists, “ what you say is true. I promised you you should have 
all the pleasure I could procure for you: and I will keep my 
word. Henceforth do as you please: I leave my honor in your 
hands; I will never interfere with you again.” 

Mignon completes her victory by a burst of angry tears, and 
by ordering her victim out of her sight. When he is gone, she 
throws her lovely head upon a pillow, and in five minutes is 
sleeping the sleep of youth and innocence. 

I can imagine I hear the reader say, What a fool the man 
must have been!” But pra 3 \ sir, if you were never made a fool 
of by a lovely woman yourself, have you not read of many brave 
and wise and gallant gentlemen who have been ? 

The next day is Sunday. Mignon takes her breakfast in bed, 


m 


MIGNON, 


and declines to accompany her husband to church. At lunch 
she sulks, and behaves as though, instead of being the most in- 
dulgent, generous husband in the world, he were a cruel tyrant. 
Raymond comes in presently, and — will any one believe it?— in 
his anxiety to propitiate his lovely wife. Sir Tristram proposes 
that they shall all three drive down to Richmond and dine. Un- 
kind fate ordains that Fred Conyngham shall also be dining with 
a select party at the Star and Garter, and that he shall come full 
tilt on Raymond and Mignon pensively contemplating the silver 
Thames from one of the terraces. Mignon, hearing footsteps, 
turns, and sees Mr. Conyngham, who lifts his hat. She looks 
him full in the face, “ tiptilts'’ her charming, impertinent nose 
and cuts him dead. Fred understands all, and groans in spirit. 

“ Lend me a pencil!” he says to’ the man who is with him. “ I 
want to write myself ' an ass.’ ” 

“Why?” asks his companion. 

“ Because, on the strength of thirty-five years’ friendship, I 
gave a man some good advice. Hear my yowV' And he strikes 
a tragic attitude. “ By every gudgeon in the Thames, by every 
separate whitebait cooked to-night, by every hair in Mademoiselfe 
Zephine’s golden chignon, by every drop of wine that will make 
to-night’s feast cursed in the memory to-morrow, I swear never 
to breathe one word of counsel to any human being from this 
time forth!” 

“ Amen!” responds the other; “it is the only way to get 
through life, and I should have given you credit for knowing 
that better than most men.” 

Mignon’s perversity, for which, however, she must not be too 
severely condemned, since it is a failing particularly common to 
man in his fallen estate, causes her to regard Raymond with 
more than usual interest, and to treat him wuth a kindness and 
gentleness that make him, as Balzac says, “ entrevoirles roses du 
septieme del.'' 

And Sir Tristram looks on and smiles, and stifles down the 
pain that gnaws his generous heart as he watches them together 
and feels that in their youth and beauty they are fitly matched. 
The thought that in a few days’ time they are to leave London 
for Bergholt Court brings little consolation with it; Raymond’s 
place is barely five miles distant, and he will have even more 
opportunity of being with Mignon and alone with her than he 
has in London. 

It is arranged that they leave for the north the first week in 
July; and the idea of seeing her stately home, and of the recep- 
tion to be given them by the neighbors and tenants, has pre- 
vented Mignon regretting the gayeties she will leave behind. 
ShewiU be a very grand personage on this occasion; indeed it 
will almost be a royal progress; and she will apparel herself 
beautifully, and bestow liberal and most gracious smiles on all 
around, and win the heart of every beholder. As she drives in 
the park, she studies the manner of the most gracious princess 
in the world, and finds herself practicing those sweet little bows 
in private which she will accompany with the sunniest smiles. 

I spare the reader details of liow all these anticipations were 


MIGNON, 


165 


carried out: was it not chronicled in many columns of the county 
paper, abridged in the Court Journal and many other fashion- 
able papers, Mignon cut it all out and put it in her desk, along 
with the announcement of her presentation at court, and various 
paragraphs mentioning her name, with those of other great 
people, at various fashionable and important reunions. She 
read with great satisfaction of “ the exquisite beauty of Lady 
Bergholt, enhanced by the most bewitching of toilets,’’ of 
'' the angelic sweetness of her smile, which, if for once appear- 
ances might be judged by, must, in the possession of so amiable 
and lovely a partner, make Sir Tristram the happiest and most 
enviable man in Christendom.” 

For the first few days, pleased wuth the excitement, and daz- 
zled by the magnitude of her possessions, Mignon w^as radiant 
with pleasure and good temper. It was Sir Tristram's turn to 
“catch a glimpse of the roses in the seventh heaven;” and, in- 
deed. it was the very happiest time he had spent since his mar- 
riage; “ in his lifetime,” he told himself. 

But when the novelty had worn off, when custom ” had 
“ staled ” the variety, Mignon began to yawn. 

“ Couldn’t we have some people to stay?” she asks her hus- 
band at breakfast one morning; and. with this, a cloud draws 
over the blue gates of his heaven and shuts out the sight of the 
roses. His programme had been to have Mignon all to himself 
for one happy fortnight, then to ask her family for a month, 
during which time there would doubtless be exchanges of civili^ 
ties and hospitalities between the other county families and 
themselves, and then a succession of visitors in the house for 
shooting. 

“ One cannot very well ask people at this time, w’hen there is 
nothing to do in the country,” he answers, with a shade of dis- 
appointment which he feels it impossible to conceal. 

“It was a great mistake,” says Mignon, her face clouding, 
“being in such a hurry to come here. A month later w^ould 
have done quite as well, and w^e should not have missed Good- 
wood and Cowes.” 

“ Your people will be coming in a w’eek,” remarks her husband, 
trying to speak cheerfully. 

“ One’s family is always so very enlivening,” retorts Mignon, 
with a toss of her head. 

‘ ‘ And you want to learn to ride and drive, you know, before 
your guests come. Your horse arrives to-day, and the cobs to- 
morrow.” 

“What on earth shall I do all day?” says Mignon, pushing 
back her chair and yawning. “ Only ten minutes to eleven!” 

“ Don’t ladies sometimes do needlework?’' asks Sir Tristram, 
diffidently. 

“Needlework!” (contemptuously). “What do you mean? 
Hemming dusters, or making clothes for the poor ?” 

“No; I mean what I think you call fancy work — cutting out 
holes and sewing them up again, or wool-work. My mother 
worked all the chairs in the morning-room.” 

,A h?”says Mignon, dryly her picture give*? me exactly that 


166 


MIONOK 


idea: she looks like a woman who would do wool-work. I dare 
say she had Dorcas meetings, and superintended the village 
school.” 

“ My love,” says Sir Tristram, gravely, my mother is a very 
sacred subject with me.” 

Mignon has not a grain of veneration. 

Well,” she laughs, “ is there anything profane in supposing 
that she occupied herself with good works ?”' 

“ I wish, darling,” he remarks, “ that your inclination lay a 
little more that way.” 

“ Oh, pray do not begin that twaddle!” she exclaims, with a 
gesture of disgust. “ Of course you are getting old, and it iff 
natural you should take a serious view of things; but for Heaven's 
sake don't make me more dull and wretched than I am already 
by lecturing me.” 

Dull and wretched! Poor Sir Tristram! O men who have 
passed your meridian, take warning, and, if you would not know 
such pain as those words gave their hearer, do not seek a lovely, 
mischievous young girl of seventeen to wife! 

The door opens; enter the butler, 

“ If you please, my lady, Mr. L’Estrange is in the morning- 
room.” 

Mignon claps her hands. 

“ This is delightful!” she cries, rushing to the glass and taking 
a coquettish survey of her appearance, perfectly unmindful or 
the indecorum of a married woman being so jubilant at the an- 
nouncement of a male visitor. 

She trips off, all smiles. 

I am glad to see you,” she cries, cordiallj^, putting out both 
hands to him: “this is an agreeable surprise. I was on the 
point of committing suicide. I am glad!” 

For the punishment of his sins, Sir Tristram, who has followed 
her, hears the last two sentences. 


CHAPTER XXVIl. 

Philmter “ aod preach to Birds and Beasts 

What Woman is, and help to save them from you. 

How Heav’nis in your Eyes, but, in your Hearts, 

More Hell than Hell has; how your Tongues, like Scorpions, 
Both heal and poison; how your Thoughts are woven 
With thousand Changes in one subtle Web. 

And worn so by you. How that foolish Man 
That reads the Story of a Woman’s Face, 

And dies believing it, is lost forever. 

How all the Good you have is but a Shadow, 

I’ the Morning with you, and at Night behind you. 

Past and forgotten. How your vows are Frosts, 

Fast for a Night, and with the next Sun gone. 

How you are, being taken altogether, 

A mere Confusion, and so dead a Chaos, 

That Love cannot distinguish.*’ 

Beaurrvord and Fletcher. 

Raymond had been looking forward with intense eagerness to 
this meeting. Infatuated, absorbed with one idea, he bad 


MIGNON, 


167 


to call evil good, and good evil. His mind was saturated with 
Mussetism, with Swinburneism, w’ith Gauthierism, with every 
ism that makes passion a god, and sacrifice to it the true wor- 
ship. The order of things was inverted with him : generosity, 
honor, self-abnegation, seemed weak, puerile qualities; strength 
was yielding to what he chose to call fate. That his love would 
triumph he never for an instant doubted; he put into tlie scale 
his youth, his ardor, his personal advantages, and it seemed to him 
that all Sir Tristram could offer only amounted to the weight of 
a feather against a pound of gold. There is a very familiar old 
proverb about reckoning without one’s host; it applied with 
great force in the present instance. 

Mignon was utterly devoid of sentiment. Like a cat, she 
loved things more than people; her own comfort best of all. 
Now a woman who leaves her husband for love of another man 
must needs be a very wicked woman, but she must also have the 
redeeming qualities, strong affections, and a certain amount of 
unselfishness; for what woman breathing does not know that by 
such a step she wrecks and blasts her whole future, and funless she 
is utterly bad and callous) is poisoning every drop of the cup of 
life left her to drink? Mignon loved herself with a love far 
more perfect and entire than any Raymond or any one else could 
offer her. She had as much idea of sacrificing her future and 
her position to love as she had of flinging her diamonds out of 
window, like Queen Guinevere, who, by the way, must have 
sorely rued that rash act in calmer moments. She liked Ray- 
mond; he amused her; it diverted her inexpressibly, too, to tor- 
ment him and see him writhe under the lash of her pitiless 
tongue. She regarded him rather as a handsome pendant to her- 
self; his dark, clear-cut beauty set hers off admirably. She 
liked to see herself reflected in a pier glass with him and had 
said once, jestingly: 

What a charming couple we make!— quite a study for Faust 
and Marguerite.” 

The most moral and severe reader may be quite easy about 
Mignon; her virtue is as unquestionable as that of any saint in 
the calendar, if virtue consists in the inability to feel tempta- 
tion as well as to wage stern and bitter warfare against it. 

Raymond’s visits became almost of daily recurrence at the 
Court; indeed, if he misses a day, Mignon is dull, and girds at 
him on his next appearance. Sir Tristram is miserable. He 
feels he has acted foolishly and wrongly; he is ashamed of his 
cowardice, and yet he has not the courage to put a stop to what 
is becoming so marked a thing as to excite attention. He hates 
to see them alone; he hates more to seem suspicious, and to 
thrust his evidently undesired company upon them; he feels 
tormented by jealousy ; and yet he does not believe for an in- 
stant that his wife entertains any real feeling for Ray mond. He 
begins to treat the young man with some coldness, at which 
Mignon, who is not slow to notice his altered manner, redoubles 
her own kindness. 

It might be reassuring to Sir Tristram could he witness the 
merciless snubs Lady Goldenlocks bestows on her adorer in 


168 


MIGNON. 


private. Raymond is prone to be melancholy, Byronic, senti- 
mental : but that is a very difficult role to play with a fair one 
who has not a grain of romance in her composition, but who has 
unlimited powers of turning the most pathetic, not to say sacred, 
subjects into ridicule. By sacred I do not, in this instance, 
mean religious. 

Raymond is beginning to lose patience. He will not believe 
that tognon, in her heart, fails to reciprocate his sentiments; 
in her levity he only sees a phase of that coquetry which his 
study of the sex, under the auspices of his favorite authors, has 
taught him to beheve is an unfailing attribute of feminine char- 
acter. 

One day they are sitting together in Mignon’s boudoir. Ray- 
mond has been fractious and petulant, and Mignon is beginning 
to be bored by his airs. 

“ What is the use of my coming here day after day?” he breaks 
out, throwing back his handsome head and looking a very good 
study for a fallen angel. “ I do not believe you care two straws 
about me ?” 

“ Well, not very much,” assents Mignon, placidly. I 
cannot make up my mind, though, which bores me the most 
—to be alone, or to be with you when you are in one of your 
tempers. I wish Lord Threestars were here! he is never in a 
temper.” 

And you dare say this to me!” cries Raymond, starting up in 
a fury. 

My lady looks at him with a saucy smile and not a shadow of 
alarm. 

“ ‘ I dare do all that man may do; 

He that dares do more is ’ 

something or other, I forget what. I read that in a book last 
week.” 

Do you mean to say,” cries Raymond, in a white heat of pas- 
sion, “ that, after you have given me all this encouragement, you 
prefer Lord Threestars ?” 

Encouragement!” laughs Mignon. What do you mean by 
encouragement? Is nearly going into convulsions over your 
ridiculous sentimental airs encouragement ? is yawning till I 
expect every minute to have lock-jaw, when you spout poetry, 
encouragement ? is telling you I would not have married you if 
you were Emperor of China and had a million a year, encourage- 
ment ?” 

Raymond stands aghast. At this moment he hates that 
lovely, laughing face with a bitter hatred; he feels a furious 
desire to mar its mocking beauty and save himself and all other 
men in the future the fate of loving it and being heartbroken 
about it. 

“ Thank you,” he says, icily; you shall have no more occa- 
sion to give me encouragement or the reverse. Believe me, I 
am perfectly des^llusion^ie^ 

‘ My heart Will hever ache t>i* breal? 

For yo'ir heart's 


MIGNON. 


1G9 


I am very glad to hear it,” answers Mignon, placidly: then, 
as he walks with slow and bitter majesty to the door, she runs 
nimbly and places her back to it. “ Don’t bea goosel” she says, 
with eyes brimful of laughter. 

“ I will endeavor to be one no longer,” he answers in a tragic 
voice. Lady Bergholt, will you permit me to pass V” 

“I adore a goose,” says my lady, mischievously — “particu- 
larly when it is stuffed with onions. That reminds me — on the 
whole, I prefer you to Lord Threestars: he cannot bear to see a 
woman eat. I would not marry him for all the world. Fancy 
your husband objecting to your enjoying your dinner. Why, 
there isn’t a man in the world I would go without my dinner to 
please.” 

“ What would you sacrifice for any man?” asks Raymond, bit- 
terly. “ A hair of your golden head? or the pleasure of hurting 
his feelings ? or what ?” 

“ I don’t know, I am sure,” replies Mignon, reflectively. “ Fort- 
unately, I am not put to the test. Sir Tristram makes all the 
sacrifices, and never expects any from me: that is the sort of 
husband I like.” 

Raymond takes both her hands with a fierce gesture. 

“ Is that true?” he says; “ are you so contented? do you never 
feel an unsatisfied longing, a hunger of the heart ? do you never 
realize how empty wealth, title, riches, all are without love?” 

“ Never,” Mignon answers, frankly. “ The only hunger I ever 
feel is bodily. I am very hungry at this moment, and it is past 
lunch- time. Come, let us go into the dining-room.” 

“ Good-bye!” utters Raymond, with gloomy scorn. 

“Nonsense!” retorts my lady. “Pa^e de foi gras is much 
more satisfying than a fit of the sulks, and iced sauterne than a 
ride in the broiling sun. Besides, if you quarreled with me you 
would miss me dreadfully, and be at your wits’ end hovy to get 
through the day.” 

“ I can put a thousand miles between myself and you,” says 
Raymond, coldly. 

“To be sure you can, but distance would only lend enchant- 
ment to the view. A thousaad miles off, you would think me 
an angel and yourself a donkey. And it would punish you ten 
times more than it would me.” 

“No doubt,” sneers Raymond. 

“ Don’t look like that! it does not suit your style of beauty. 
There is the gong. Come and have lunch.” 

“ No, thank you ” (in a freezing tone). 

“ Think how pleased Sir Tristram would be if you went off in 
a huff.” And Mignon laughs mischievously. So Raymond 
st^s. 

The right-minded historian and dramatist always shows how 
virtue triumphs and vice is punished. In the present instance I 
shall be pointing a moral and telling the truth when I aver that 
there is no more miserable man in all the British dominions than 
Raymond L’Estrange about this period of his existence. As for 
Mignon, with the exception of being a little bored, she was as 
happy and free from care as it falls to the lot of most people to 


170 . MIQNOK 

be who have an excellent digestion, no hc^art. and no responsi- 
bility. 

The week following the Carlyle family arrivedi, ail except 
Gerry, w’ho was not to come till the tenth of August. Sir Tris- 
tram had a few grouse on his moor, but not enough to make it 
worth while to invite a party. His own gun and his father and 
brother-in-law’s would be quite enough. The anj^val of his wife’s 
relatives was an immense relief to him; besides the pleasure 
his kind heart gave him in making them welcome, it was a great 
satisfaction to him to think that Mignon’s tete-a-tetes with Ray- 
mond would be put an end to. 

Lady Bergholt received her family with extreme graciousness; 
it was delightful to her to show herself to them as such an im- 
portant personage. She took every opportunity of parading her 
advantages before them with the want of delicacy common to 
minds not generous; she apparaled herself gorgeously, and 
decked herself with jewels. But her family, with perhaps the 
exception of Regina, were quite ready to rejoice in her triumph, 
to admire, to sympathize, and to exult in her greatness. 

Raymond kept away for a few days, chafing furiously the 
while, and making himself eminently disagreeable to his poor 
mother. Mignon, who was getting tired of the Oompanionship of 
her own people, now she had exhibited all her magnificence to 
them, wrote and asked him to dinner. Perhaps she wished to show 
them the only possession they had not seen (in the light of a pos- 
session at least). At dinner he made himself extremely agree- 
able, and was not demonstrative; but when lie joined the ladies 
in the drawing-room, either his discretion had worn off, or the 
wine he had drunk made him indifferent to any opinions he 
might provoke. For the fii*&t time in her life, Mignon telt a 
shadow of uneasiness under the glances which his dark eyes 
flashed upon her. 

“ Sing us something,*’ she said, at last, in an impatient, imperi- 
ous tone. “ Regina will play for you.” 

“Will not you?” he murmured, looking languorously down 
upon her. 

“ No ” (abruptly). “ I hate playing accompaniments, and you 
know I never give you time to get all your expression in ” (with 
a little sneer). 

Raymond strolled to the piano, and selected the “ Chanson de 
Fortunio,” set to Offenbach’s music. I don’t know whether the 
poor, love-lorn lad, when he sang to Jacqueline, kept his eyes 
from betraying him or belying the words of his song; if he did, 
Raymond was far from imitating him. When he sang: 

“ Qiie je I’adore, et qu’elle est blonde 
Cuinaie lt*s bles ” — 

he looked steadfastly at Mignon; and when he came to the con- 
cluding vei-se: 

“ Mais j’aime trop pour qne je die, 

Qui j’ose aimer, 

Et je veux monrir pour ma mie, 

Sans la mommer 


MIGNOK 


171 


it was safficientl y evident to every one present for whom he was 
expressing Ids willingness to die. Each member of the Carlyle 
family felt horribly embarrassed. As for the father, he would 
have liked nothing so much as to kick the impudent puppy out 
of the door. Mrs. Carlyle looked frightened, Mary pained, 
Regina arched her eyebrows. Sir Tristram alone seemed not to 
remark anything. 

Mignon, whose perceptions in some things were remarkably 
quick, observed the effect that was produced on her family, and 
felt angry with Raymond for putting her in an embaiTassing 
position. ' 

“What a stupid song!” she said, as he finished; “not that I 
understand half of it, but I conclude, froin the way you turned 
up your eye^ that it was something very sentimental. Can’t 
you sing us a comic song? 1 like those much better.” 

“ I am sorry I cannot oblige you,” answered Raymond, stiffly, 
turning away to conceal his mortification. 

It was a relief to every one when, soon afterward, he took his 
departure. 

Captain Carlyle meditated long and earnestly that night, 
Mignon must be spoken to, but by whom ? Not himself certainly: 
he had no intention of exciting the defiance which had only just 
fallen to slumber. No, he told himself firmly, so delicate a 
matter came within the province of a mother; let her mother 
look to it. 

He laid his commands upon Mrs. Carlyle. She, poor woman, 
entreated to be excused, but the lord was firm. The mother, 
feeling how hopeless was the task, drew her eldest daughter into 
her counsels. Mary loved Mignon : she had, besides, an immense 
regard for Sir Tristram, but stronger than every other feeling 
was her sense of duty. Tht task was a painful one; but she 
thought over it, prayed over it, and gathered up all her courage. 
It seems odd that a girl of eighteen, with a face as fair as an an- 
gel’s and as candid as a child’s, could inspire as much awe of con- 
tradicting her as Mignon; but perhaps the reader may know of 
some parallel case that may help to make it more intelligible to 
him. 

It was the morning but one after Raymond had dined, and 
Mary followed her sister to her boudoir. 

“ My dear,” she said in her kind grave voice, kissing the peach- 
like cheek, “ do you know I think you are a very fortunate girl ?” 

“ Yes ?” (with a little gesture of indifference). “ Well, I sup- 
pose I am,” 

“ You have everything heart can desire.” 

Mignon looked as though, if it were not too much trouble, she 
would dissent from so broad a proposition. 

“ The kindest husband in the world.” 

Mignon conjectured dimly what was coming. 

“Yes,” she said, turning to look at Mary, and speaking half 
in jest, half in earnest; “ but the thing I am most thankful of 
all for is that 1 am my own mistress ” (with great decision), 
“and that no one has any right to interfere with me or to 
lecture me.” 


MIGNON, 




‘‘Not those who love you with all their hearts?” whispered 
Mary, in a low voice, looking tenderly in Mignon’s clear blue 
eyes. “ Have those who have your welfare most at heart no 
right to say a word of warning if they think that in your in- 
nocence and inexperience you stand in need of it ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked Mignon, irritably. 

“ I mean,” replied Mary, miickly, “ that I think it is painful 
to Sir Tristram to see Mr. L’Estrange treat you in the manner he 
does, although he is too delicate and generous even to seem to 
notice it.” 

“Did he ask you to tell me this?” cried Mignon, with a re- 
bellious flush. 

“ My dear, I think you must know him too wc 11 to imagine 
that what he is too delicate to say to you he wou^d be likely to 
mention to others.” 

“Then I think,” said Mignon, firing up, “it would be well if 
other people imitated his delicacy and allowed me to manage 
my own affairs.” 

“ Mignon!” cried Mary, imploringly. 

But my lady is quite incapable of brooking interference: she 
has been accustomed to find her word law and her sovereign 
will undisputed so long that a word of reproof or admonition is 
an unpardonable impertinence in her eyes. As ill fortune would 
have it, who should appeas in the doorway at this very moment 
but Raymond! 

“ Talk of the devil and you see his horns!” cried Mignon, with 
a laugh. “You are not so much like him, though, this morning 
as you are sometimes; you look quite good-tempered.” 

Two little red spots of anger are still burning on her cheeks; 
she feels in that recklesss mood which sometimes seems to indi- 
cate high spirits in young people. To those who understand 
them, however, it is a mood that generally lies nearer tears than 
laughter; it is an angry disturbance of their pride and mighti- 
ness, and a secret consciousness of being in the wrong. 

Those are the moods in which the young love to shock and 
surprise their grave elders; and if the elders remembered some 
such feeling of their own youth, and were sympathetic and ten- 
der instead of being bold and reproving, the masterful young 
ones would soon come down off their pinnacle of folly. 

“What do you think?” continued Mignon, all in a breath; 
“my sister was just saying hOw handsome you were, and that 
she almost wondered I did not fall in love with and run away 
with you.” 

Raymond, looking from one to the other, conjectured that 
Miss Carlyle had been saying something of a very different 
nature. 

“ I must tell you,” proceeded Mignon, ^ill laughing, and 
speaking in a loud key, “ that Mary adores Sir Tristram; they 
would have made a nice, respectable old couple, would they 
not ?” 

“ I think they would have suited each other admirably,” an- 
swered Raymond. 


MIGNOK 173 

Mary looked up at him with some displeasure, and observed, 
with gentle dignity: 

‘‘ Do you not think tliat there are some subjects on which it is 
better taste not to jest 

But Raymond was as difficult to abash as even Mignon. 

“ Lady Berg holt asked me a question, and I believe politeness, 
not to say good taste, required me to answer it. I agree with 
her that you and Sir Tristram would have made an admirable 
pair, even more suitable, if she will permit me to say so” (with 
an ill-concealed sneer), “ than Sir Tristram and herself.” 

Mary felt exceedingly indignant; she would have liked to ^et 
up and go out of the room, but thought it wrong to leave him 
alone with Mignon. 

But my lady took the law into her own hands, 

‘‘Come, Raymond,” she said, gayly, “let us go into the gar- 
den.” 

This was the first time she had ever called him by his name. 
It was a continuation of her ‘ ‘ higli spirits.” When the door was 
closed upon them, he took her hand eagerly. 

“ I am in love with my name when I hear it from your 
sweet lips,” he whispered. 

“ Bah!” she said, snatching it from him; “ I only said it to vex 
Mary. And I don’t think it the least pretty; it is as stupid and 
unromantic as my own.” 

Raymond, being so smartly snubbed, did not find his tongue 
again until they were out in the garden. 

“ Your sister seems a fine specimen of the genus old maid,” he 
remarked, feeling a grudge against poor Mary for trying to do 
her duty. 

“ My sister is an angel,” retorted Mignon, fiercely, “and you 
are not fit to wipe the dust off her shoes.” 

Here was the beginning of a very pretty quarrel, but at this 
juncture Mignon observed her father coming rapidly toward 
them, and the demon of mischief returned upon her fourfold. 

“ He is coming to spoil sport. Quick! quick!” she cried, and, 
before Raymond knew what she was about, Mignon caught him 
by the arm, dragged him down the steep green slope of the ter- 
race, and flew like a young deer across the lawn and toward the 
wood, Raymond following with an irritable sense of impaired 
dignity. 

Captain Carlyle, surveying the flying pair, who would have 
made a charming study for Atalanta and Hippomenes, launched 
after them a most unpaternal anathema, and retired to the 
house to pour out the vials of his wrath upon his unhappy wife. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“ Did you ever hear my definition of marriage? It is that it resembles 
a pair of shears, so joined that they cannot be separated, often moving 
in opposite directions, yet always punishing anyone who comes between 
them. ’ ’ Sydney Smiih. 

The Carlyle family were very uneasy indeed^ Sir Tristram 
«c;o!itinued to no Bign,, Mr. L’E^tmnge mede BergJiolt 


174 • 


MIGNOK 


Court his home as it pleased him. It was not that Mignon’s fa- 
ther, mother, or sisters thought she was in danger of losing her 
heart; truth to tell, they had very limited faith in that portion 
of her anatomy; but they saw that she was in the way of compro- 
mising her dignity and making herself the subject of remark, 
and this, they were well aware, would endanger her position in 
j the county. They held solemn conclaves on the subject; each 
‘ wished to delegate to the other the unpleasant task of remon- 
strating with the perverse beauty. Mary felt no courage to re- 
sume the subject, after the manner in which Mignon had flouted 
her remarks before. 

“ Wait till Gerry comes,” advised Regina: ‘Gie is the only one 
of us who dares to speak to her. She will listen to anything 
from him.” 

** Wait!” grumbled Captain Carlyle; “ wait until the silly girl’s 
.name is in every mouth, and people are beginning to look coldly 
upon her.” 

“ Well, then, papa,” retorted Regina, “ why do not you speak 
to her V” 

Captain Carlyle was silent. He was dreadfully afraid of of- 
fending his youngest daughter. He liked his quarters at Berg- 
holt: he liked the prospect of all the shooting he was to get 
there; and he knew perfectly that if he made himself obnoxious 
to Mignon this vrould be his first and last visit. So he elected to 
take Regina’s advice and wait for Gerry. 

Now, if there was one human being whom Lady Bergholt 
loved with any approximation to the devotion she felt for her- 
self, it was her twin brother. She loved him even more since 
she chose to consider that she had made such a gigantic 
sacrifice for him. She could think and talk of nothing else for 
days before he came; his very name was a weariness to Ray- 
mond's flesh; he grew sulky under Mignon’s continued rhapso- 
dies, which, as she observed they were unwelcome to her au- 
ditor, my lady kindly continued to reiterate with unwearied 
fervor. 

‘‘You must not come near for days,” she tells him, kindly. 
“ I shall be so wrapped up in Gerry, I shall not have a word to 
say to you.” 

“ Oh, Gemini!” says Raymond, with a little scornful laugh, 

“ That is meant for a joke, I suppose,” remarks Mignon, dis- 
dainfully. “ I never made a joke in my life; it is only very 
stupid people who do, I think.” 

Raymond contemplates her with a little bitter working of the 
mouth. She is sitting on a low, cushioned, garden chair, under 
a broad-leaved chestnut. The faint pale-blue of her dress with 
its clouds of lace sets off the exquisite fairness of her skin; her 
eyes are like deep wells in which th^ sky is reflected on a sum- 
mer night; the fine threads of her hair sparkle like gold. The 
same thought that came to poor Oswald Carey comes to Ray- 
mond as he looks at her. 

He speaks. Though his words are sweet, the tone of them is 
low and bitter. His dark, close curls are pressed back against 


MIGNON, 


175 


the tree- trunk, his hazel eyes are bent upon her face in a hard 
unfaltering gaze. 

“ You are the most beautiful woman I ever saw. I doubt if 
Helen of Troy were fairer. Everything about you (outwardly) 
is perfect: there is not one feature in youi face that sculptor or 
painter could improve. You are altogether lovely.” 

He pauses, and she looks at him with mocking wonder in her 
eyes. 

“You are very kind,” she says; ** but you remind me of that 
piece at the Haymarket — “ The Palace of Truth,” I think— where 
people said something quite different from what they meant to 
say. To judge by your face, I could imagine that, instead of all 
the pretty things you have treated me to, you were saying some- 
thing very spiteful.” 

“ I have not finished,” he answers, not relaxing either the 
steadfastness or the bitterness of his gaze. 

“ Oh!” laughs Mignon; “ I have had the jam, and the powder 
is coming. Is that it ?” 

Raymond resumes. 

“ I dare say men would commit crimes and follies for you, as 
they did for the lovely women in the olden time. I dare say, if 
circumstance had placed you in a similar position, you would 
have had the bliss of embroiling kingdoms and causing rivers of 
blood to flow. As it is, your powers for evil are necessarily 
circumscribed, though doubtless you will do a good deal of mis- 
chief before you die. But ” And he pauses. 

“ Now comes the tug of war,” mocks Mignon. 

But — suppose you were stricken down with smallpox ta 
morrow, suppose you were disfigured in a railway accident, 
suppose, from whatever cause, you lost your beauty, I do not 
believe you would have a friend in the world, nor a creature 
who cared for you.” 

Mignon’s eyes flashed with indignant amazement; but Ray- 
mond has not finished. 

‘‘ What have you ever done to win any one’s love ? when have 
you been unselfish, or tender, or pitiful ? when have you done 
one of those kind actions that make other women friends, even 
though they have no beauty ? when have you considered any 
breathing human being but yourself?” 

It certainly is rather “ a strong order for so very egotistical 
a young gentleman as Raymond to give a lecture upon the very 
faults he possesses himself; but, as it has been remarked, our 
own failings are always those which offend us most in others. 

“Thank you!” cries Mignon, with blazing eyes, and cheeks 
stirred to carnation by her wrath. “ I shall know in future 
how to value all your protestations of love and admiration. 
Not that I ever thought them sincere, or worth having if they 
were.” 

“ But you see,” returns Raymond, his bitterness relaxing now 
that he has given vent to his spleen, “ you have not taken the 
smallpox nor been smashed in a railway* carriage; so the fact of 
your beauty remains, and consequently the fact that I, and other 
fools like me. will break our hearts about yoiu” 


176 


MIGNON. 


“ Break YOUR heart P' retorts Mignon, with a whole volume 
of scorn in her voice. 

So it will appear that this young couple, who are giving so 
much anxiety to their elders, have not that exalted respect and 
esteem for each other upon which it is said, and truly said, th# 
tender passion should be founded. 

After having indulged himself in telling these bitter truths to 
my lady, Raymond has to eat a fabulous amount of humble pie 
before "he is restored to anything like favor. Strange to say, 
his words rankle in Mignon’s breast. As a rule, reproaches and 
sharp words glance off her as arrows from an iron target, but 
when, later, she goes to her room to dress, she looks at herself 
earnestly in the glass, and says, in her heart, “It is quite true. 
If I were ugly, who would care for me?” And she sighs, and 
for once wishes she were something worthier and better. 
Gerry is to arrive to-night; she runs a dozen times to his room, 
bo think if she can invent any improvement; she puts on one 
of her loveliest dresses, though she will have to change it again 
in half an hour for dinner; and when she sees the dog-cart com- 
ing up the drive, she flies dowm-stairs and out upon the steps, 
and, almost before he alights, both her arms are round his neck, 
and she is giving him such a hug as no one in the memory of man 
ever beheld her give. The servants, who have never seen her 
caress man, woman, child, dog, or horse, are fairly astounded. 
A bitter pang goes through Sir Tristram’s heart; but he comes 
forward and shakes the lad heartily by the hand, and welcomes 
him as though he were his own brother. As for Gerry, he is 
not like his sister; perhaps the warmest corner in his heart is 
for her, but he has plenty of love and kindness and good will for 
every one else. 

He gives lavish greetings all round, whilst my lady looks on 
with ill-concealed impatience. It is a real pleasure to see his 
bright, cheery smile, that looks like the incarnation of a sun • 
beam, to hear his fresh young voice; it makes even the serv- 
ants, who are as immovable as becomes their position in a 
“high” family, relax the muscles of their face; it is easy to 
prognosticate that before three days there won’t be one among 
them who will not be a willing slave to him. 

“ If my lady was only like him,” said the butler (and no doubt 
many wholesome truths are uttered in the servants’ hall), “ we 
should all fall down and worship her.” 

My lady, however, gives them no cause to break the second 
commandment; not one of them likes her in his heart, although 
her loveliness has much the same fascination for them that it has 
for their superiors. 

Gerry’s gratitude toward Sir Tristram is unbounded; he seems 
as if he cannot show it enough. The affectionate deference 
with which he treats liim charms every one except Mignon, who 
seems to consider that all his gratitude is due to her. Gerry has 
been gazetted to the — th Lancers, and is to join in a month. 
Sir Tristram got him his commission. Sir Tristram has paid 
every shilling of his expenses since last September, Sir Tristram 
ha? given him bis outfit, and makes him the liberal allowance 


MIGNON. 


trr 


that permits him to live like a young gentleman of the period . 
and Uerry has the most lively recollection of all these favors. 
The bounty he has received does not make him, like the horse- 
leech's daughters, cry, “ Give! give!” he would not ask anything 
more of his brother-in-law for the world; to save his* life, he 
would not exceed his allowance. 

There is only just time after he arrives to dress for dinner, but 
imperious Mignon is not to be contradicted in her desire to have 
her brother all to hersell. Almost immediately dinner is over, 
she gets up and signs to Gerry to accompany her. He looks 
first at his brother-in-law — which makes my lady toss her head 
scornfully. 

“ Will you excuse me. Sir Tristram he asks. 

“ By all means, my boy,’ answers Sir Tristram, heartily. 

Now, Madam Mignon, with the curiosity which belongs only 
to the inferior sex. is dying to see Gerry’s finery, which she has 
especially command ea him to bring. 

“Come,” she cries, linking her arm in his, and marching him 
off up-stairs; “ 1 want to see all your lovely clothes.” And 
Gerry, who is quite as proud of his uniform as any other young 
embryo soldier, nothing loath, obeys her behest. 

But when they have arrived at his room, the first thing he 
does is to put his arms round his sister and smother her with 
kisses. 

“Oh, Yonnie! what a darling you look! and how can I ever 
thank you and Sir Tristram enough! Are you quite happy?” 

Mignon at this moment is possessed by a perfect sense of bien^ 
etre; but she has no idea of undervaluing the sacrifice she 
wishes Gerry to consider she has made; so she heaves a little 
sigh, which is exceedingly strained and unnatural and answers: 

“ As happy as I can expect to be.” 

“But he is such a thundering good fellow,” utters Gerry, 
wistfully. 

“ Yes, but you didn’t have to marry him; you haven’t got to 
live with him for the next hundred years,” says Mignon. 
“ There!” (impatiently), “ I don’t want to talk about him. Get 
your things out.” 

So Gerry, with much pride and care, unfolds his treasures one 
by one from their wrappings, and exhibits them to Mignon’s 
dazzled eyes. 

“ You must put them on I must see you in them!’' cries 
Mignon. “ Stay!” (as a sudden idea rushes through her brain); 
and she claps her hands and dances round the room in wild de 
light. “ I know. I will put on your full-dress uniform, and 
you shall put on the undress, and we will go down-stairs to- 
gether. You stoop a little, and I will make myself tall, and 
they won’t know which is which.” 

“ Will it be quite the thing, Yonnie?” asks Gerry, with some 
hesitation. 

“ Of course it will. Why not? Quick! give me all the things, 
and I will carry them to my room.” 

The maid is summoned; but it is as much as her place is worth 
to venture any remonstrance. In twenty minutes my lady is as 


178 


MIGNON, 


(la&hing a cornet as ever held her majesty’s commission, and 
swaggers about as only a woman in men’s clothes can. Garry is 
dressed long ago, and comes to give the finishing-touch. He is 
not quite easy in his mind about the propriety of the escapade j 
but Mignon is wild with spirits. As they go "out arm in arm, 
their svvords clanking behind them, the corridor rings again 
with her laughter. The party have left the dining-room; neither 
are they in the drawing-room. 

We shall find them in the garden,” says Mignon. 

They saunter through the open windows. It is bright moon- 
light. The night is intensely hot, and coffee is being served out 
of doors. They inin full tilt against the butler and footman, 
who, for once in their lives, so far forgot themselves as to look 
something of the astonishment they feel. Immediately after- 
ward they join the group. In one instant it is evident to Gerry 
that the joke is not appreciated: there is a look of dismay on 
every face. Sir Tristram colors and rises. 

“My dear,” he says, advancing hurriedly to Mignon, “pray 
return to the house before the servants see you.” 

He has been educated in the good old school. For a woman 
to lower herself in the eyes of her household is a very shocking 
offense, in his opinion. 

“ Too late!” cries Mignon, with a laugh, half defiant, half 
awkward. “ I just ran into Howell’s arms and nearly made him 
drop the coffee-pot.” 

“ Mignon,” whispers Mary, “ do come in, dear.” And she takes 
her by the arm. 

“ How stupid you all are!” cries Mignon, with an angry flush 
in her fair face; “ to make such a fuss about a joke!” 

For the first time in his life her husband speaks angrily to 
her. 

“ It is no joke for a lady to degrade herself before her servants, 
Lady Bergholt.” 

Mignon turns upon him furiously. 

“ XVhose fault is it that I am Lady Bergholt f' she cries, with 
an accent of bitter contempt on the name and title; but here 
Gerry drags her away by main force, and she returns to her 
room and gives vent to a passion of angry tears. She does not 
appear again that evening, and poor Gerry feels rather sad and 
crestfallen. 

Next morning, however, the escapade seems to be forgotten 
by all but Mignon, who treats every one but Gerry with extreme 
coldness and hauteur. Captain Carlyle loses no time in impart- 
ing to Gerry his mieasiness about Raymond’s attentions, and the 

E oor lad feels more seriously afflicted than he has ever done in 
is life, except when his uncle died. Suppose Mignon had mar- 
ried Sir Tristram for his sake; suppose she found herself unable 
to love him, and had conceived an attachment for L‘Estrange! 
These thoughts sadly spoiled his first day’s shooting. But he 
had i-esolved what to do. He speak to his sister! he upbraid her! 
he even have a disloyal doubt of her, when she has been his 
jjuardian angel! No! His affair was with the man, not with 


MIGNON. 179 

her. And, in his chivalrous boyish heart, he was ready to fight 
for her honor to the death. 

Ptaymond dined at Bergholt on the evening of the 12th; he had 
ridden over in the afternoon. 

‘‘I thought your paragon would be out,” he says, and you 
might be feeling dull.” 

I am rather,” assents my lady. 

“ Well, are you getting at all bored by his military conversa- 
tion ? I suppose he is pretty full of swagger ” 

“As for swagger,” retorts Mignon, with a malicious laugh, 
“you have quite accustomed me to that. And I don’t believe 
he has swaggered as much in eight-and-forty hours as ycu do in 
ten minutes.” 

Raymond is pleased to be immensely gracious to Gerry, and 
Gerry, who meant to treat him with much coolness, is not proof 
against the frank kindness of his manner. On this particular 
evening there is nothing very marked in his attentions to Mignon, 
and Gerry begins to think his father has made some mistake. A 
few days, however, suffice to convince him that there is but too 
much truth in what he has heard: it is evident that Mignon, al- 
though she snubs Raymond most unmercifully, takes a certain 
amount of pleasure in his society, and likes him to come to the 
house, and it is not only evident, but unmistakable, that Ray- 
mond is very much in love indeed. So Gerry buckles on hiis 
moral harness and prepares to do battle for his sister’s good name. 

More than once Raymond has pressed him to go over to L’ Es- 
trange Hall, and on the sixth day after his arrival at Bergholt 
he accepts the invitation. 

“ I will ride over to-morrow, if it suits you,” he says; and Ray- 
mond gives a pleased assent. He likes Gerry because he resem- 
bles Mignon; he likes him for his own sake too, and he is more 
than anxious to be friendly with him. The boy’s heart is 
heavy within him as he rides along the green lanes and across 
the common. He has never exchanged hard words with any 
one in his life; personally, he likes and admires Raymond, and 
would gladly be his friend. But he has a strong sense of honor 
an almost chivalrous feeling of his obligations to Sir Tristram, 
and, above all things, an intense devotiori to his twin sister. And 
so, without a word or hint to any one, he rides forth with a 
heavy heart to do what duty bids him. 

Raymond, than whom no man living can be more gracious or 
winning when the mood is on him, comes out vWith the most 
cordial of greetings, treats him as though he were a brother 
returned after a long absence, introduces him to his mother, and 
unfolds his projects for the day’s amusement. Poor Gerry is ill 
at ease, miserable; he has no intention of staying; how should 
he eat bread and salt with the man who may one day stand face 
to face with him as his bitterest foe ? There is a nervous flutter 
at his heart; his color comes and goes; he answers at random; 
but Raymond is so full of spirits, and has so much to say, he 
does not seem to remark Gerry’s strangeness. They go round 
the stables, look at the dogs, pay a visit to the keepers’ cottages 


ISO 


MIGNOK 


to Bee the young pheasants that are being brought up there, and 
finally return to the house. And yet Gerry has not spoken. 

“ It must be lunch-time,” says Raymond, looking at his 
watch. 

And then Gerry, trembling in every limb from strong excite- 
ment, his heart in his throat, begins: 

cannot stay to lunch, thanks. I came here to say some- 
thing to you; when I have said it, I will go.” 

Raymond looks at him in unfeigned astonishment, but quick^ 
as lightning comes the intuition of what that something is. He 
says nothing, but looks Gerry full in the face wnth his dark reso- 
lute eyes, and waits. 

The words that Gerry has arranged in his head take flight, or 
come out headlong, pell-mell, trembling, fluttering, but he 
makes himself understood. 

“You have been very kind to me; I like you very much, I 
wish we could be friends, but my sister is more than anything 
else to me in the world. I don’t blame you— of course you can’t 
help it— I don’t know who could — but it must not be.” 

“ My dear fellow,” responds Raymond, coolly, “if you would 
kindly try and be a little more lucid, I might get some idea of 
what you are driving at.” 

“ I think you know,” says the boy, a flush overspreading the 
face that is so like Mignon’s. “ I mean that you are in love with 
my sister, and that no one can help seeing it. And — and people 
will talk about it, and that will be bad for her.” 

“ Don’t you think,” remarks Raymond, with the shadow of a 
sneer, “ that her husband is the best judge of that? Don’t you 
think he is old enough to take care of her honor ?” 

“ He is the noblest fellow in the world,’' breaks out Gerry; 
“ he is so good himself that he would not even suspect others of 
abusing his generosity.” 

“ But, my dear fellow,” says Raymond, assuming a genial and 
ingenuous air, “ what do you complain of ? What do you want 
me to do ? Surely it is natural that I should admire so very 
lovely a woman as Lady Bergholt ?” He wants to divert Gerry’s 
suspicions, and to treat the matter in such a way as will make it 
difficult for him to proceed to extremities. In his heart he laughs 
at the idea of a boy like this standing between him and what 
has come to be the one object of his life. 

“ I want you to keep away from her,” answers Gerry, in alow 
voice. “ If you really care for her, you will want to do what is 
best for her.” 

Raymond looks at him, with a faint smile curving his lips. 

“ Have you ever been in love ?” 

Gerry blushes. 

“ Well, no, perhaps not exactly in love,” he says, hesitating, 
“but 1 have been very fond of one or two girls.” 

“You have never felt a passion that has absorbed your whole 
heart and thoughts, never cared so much for any one that every 
hour spent away from them was positive pain and misery ?” 

Raymond’s voice is hoarse and deep; his eyes flash; he is in 
bitter earnest. 


MIGNON. 


18 i 

“ No/ answers Gerry, as if he was a little ashamed of not hav- 
ing experienced the sensations described. 

“Then pardon me for saying you can be no judge in the mat- 
ter. Your sister was sold ” (Gerry winces) “ to a man as old as 
her father, when she was such a child as not to know what love 
meant; is it wonderful that when my heart speaks to hers, hers 
should answer ? Let those who sold her look to it!” 

There is a dark red flush on Raymond’s face; he forgets that 
he is speaking to Mignon’s brother, and that he is only a lad. In 
his tone there is a covert threat, and Gerry resents it. 

She is not in love with you,” he says, stoutly; “ no more in 
love with you than she was with Oswald Carey.” 

“ Pray who is Oswald Carey ?” asks Raymond, sharply. 

“ Oh, a great friend of mine; he worshiped the ground she 
walked on, and when she gave him up for Sir Tristram it broke 
his heart, and he went off to India.” 

“ Oh!” says Raymond, drawing a long breath. “ And may I 
ask on what grounds you have come to the conclusion that your 
sister is as indifferent to me as she was to Mr. Oswald Carey ?” 

“ Because she laughs and gibes at you all day long,” answers 
Gerry, with imprudent frankness; “ and she makes fun of you 
behind your back. She would not do that if she cared for you. 

Raymond is stung to the quick. 

“Does Lady Bergholt know of your errand here to-day ?” he 
asks, after a moment’s pause. 

“ No. I would not have her know for the world.” 

“ Perhaps Sir Tristram does?” 

“ No one knows,” cries Gerry, indignantly. “And now give 
me your answer and let me go. Will you give up coming so 
often to see my sister and paying her attentions which may com- 
promise her ?” 

Raymond draws himself up to his full height, and looks down 
at the stripling as Goliath might have looked at David. 

“ I will not give up going to see your sister,’ he answers, con- 
temptuously; “nor will 1 give up showing all the admiration 
and devotion I feel for her.” 

The red color mounts to Gerry’s neck and brow, his blue 
eyes flash as Mignon’s are wont to do, his nostrils quiver, he 
looks as gallant a lad as you could well And in the three king- 
doms. 

“ Then,” he says, in a voice trembling with righteous wrath, 
“ I will compel you. You think me a boy; you shall find I am 
a man. I suppose you are a gentleman; you will hardly refuse 
to fight. If disgrace comes to my sister through you, it will 
not be until you have, my blood "on your hands, not till I am 
dead, and can no longer defend her.” 

Raymond is at a loss. He feels the absurdity of the situation, 
but he cannot help admiring the lad’s chivalrous bearing. To 
quarrel a Voutrance V7\th. a boy of eighteen is out of the question, 
but he sees in him a determined and unpleasant obstacle. 

“ He will be gone in another fortnight,” he says to himself. 
“It is a confounded nuisance; but I suppose I must do some- 
thing to lull his suspicions.” 


MIQNON, 


l&l 


He holds out his hand with a smile. 

“ My dear fellow, I would not hurt a hair of your head. Keep 
your sword for the enemies of your country. I hope you will 
never have occasion to draw it on me. 

But Gerry declines the proffered hand. 

“ I will not take it until you swear to desist from persecuting 
my sister.” 

“Persecuting — nonsense!” cries Raymond, with a light laugh. 
•• Come, now you have had your heroics, get off the stilts and 
come and have some lunch.” 

“ Will you be so good as to order my horse ?” says Gerry. “ I 
will not stay any longer.” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it,” replies Raymond, coldly, ringing 
the bell. He is getting a little bored. “ Have Mr. Carlyle’s 
horse brought round,” he says; and during the time that elapses 
until it is announced, not a word is spoken between them. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ L’abbe Bouchitte. quand on faisait devant lui avec enthouslasme 
I’elogede la beante d’uue femme, vous iiiterrompait en dissant. 

“ ‘ Mange-t-elle?’ 

“ ‘ Plait-il? Qne dites-vous?^ 

“ ‘ Je vous deniande si elle mange.’ 

“ ‘ Je ne sais pas encore, mais je crois que oui.* 

“‘Pouahi alors.’ 

‘ Pourquoi pouali?’ 

“ ‘ Parce que je ii’admets pas une femme qui mangel’ ” 

The following morning, Mignon receives a letter. 

“ Dear Lady Bergholt, — Your fire-eating brother gave me 
such a terrible fright yesterday that I shall not feel safe as long 
as we are both in the same county. So I am having my things 
packed, that I may make my escape while there is yet time. I 
have deferred going to Scotland, because I found greater charms 
here, but, now that the only house where I care to be is closed 
against me, I shall go and have a turn at the grouse. You will, 
I dare say, be able to console yourself for my absence by making 
fun of me behind my back.’’^ 

“ Ever yours, Raymond L’Estrange.” 

Mignon reads the letter in silence, and puts it in her pocket. 
When breakfast is over she says to her brother: 

“ Gerry, I want you to come into the wood with me this morn- 
ing.” 

Gerry feels guilty, but he says to himself: 

“ He surely can’t have been sucn a sneak as to tell her.” 

As they walk along together, Mignon is full of spirits: she 
laughs and 'talks about a thousand things; and Gerry tries to per- 
suade himself that it is only his conscience that makes him 
uneasy. Presently they come to a felled tree, and Mignon sits 
down upon it. 

“ Now,” she says abruptly, fixing her eyes on his face, “ what 
have you been saying to Mr. L’Estrange ?” 


MIQNON: 183 

Gerry blushes like a girl, and drops his eyes. Mignon takes 
the letter from her pocket, and hands it to him. 

What a coward!” says the boy, bitterly, as he reads it. 

“Well,” says Mignon, “ I want to know what you said to 
him.” 

“ I cannot tell you,” Gerry answers, turning his head away. 

Dangerous fires begin to kindle in the dark-blue eyes; there is 
an ominous dilating of the fine nostrils, a tempest begins to 
heave under the lace that covers my lady’s breast. 

“ How dare you interfere with me? how dare you insult my 
friends ?” she cries. 

“ Yonnie, don’t be angry with me!” he pleads. “ I never 
meant you to know.” 

“ Of course not” (bitterly); “ but, you see, you did not manage 
quite cleverly.” (Then, in a tone of disgust,) 1 never thought 
you were a sneak before. So this is your gratitude!” 

“ Yes!” he cries, stung to the quick: “ this is my gratitude. I 
would rather kill any one, or let any one kill me, than that it 
should be in people’s power to say a word against you.” 

Mignon’s anger subsides into mirth, 

“ Good heavens!” she says, laughing, “ you don’t mean to say 
you have been challenging him ?” 

Gerry is silent. 

“ Did you ?” she repeats. 

“ I told him,” he answers, in a low voice, “ that he must 
cease paying you the marked attention he is doing, or ” 

“ Or what ?” 

“ There is only one alternative between gentlemen, ” answers 
Gerry, with dignity, “ when one says, ‘ You must,’ and the other 
says, ‘ I will not.’ ” 

“Oh! and so he said he would not ?” asks Mignon, curiously. 

“ He gave me to understand as much.” 

“ Yes,” utters Mignon, complacently, “ I don’t think any one 
would get much by saying must to Raymond.” 

Gerry fixes his eyes full upon her. He looks as though he 
were trying to read her through, trying not to find something he 
is afraid of. 

“ You do not care for him ?” he whispers, with a voice in which 
doubt and fear struggle painfully. 

“ I do care for him very much,” she says, willfully. 

He throws himself down at her feet, with his arms across her 
knees, and his eyes fixed imploringly on hers. 

“ Oh, Yonnie!” he cries, with intense earnestness, “ for God’s 
sake, don’t say that! You don’t know what it means! you don’t 
know v/hat an awful thing it is for a married woman to care for 
another man! Ob, God!” and lie clasps her so tight it pains her, 
“if I thought you would be what — what some women are, I 
should ask him to kill you first.” 

His voice quivers with passion, his eyes devour her face for an 
answer, his boyish soul is shaken with fear at what her careless 
words have implied. 

Mignon feels a little abashed. 


184 


MIGNON. 


“ Don’t be a goose,” she says, pushing him from her. ^'1 like 
the man; I don’t love him, if that is what you mean?” 

“Oh, Yonnie, are you sure?” 

“ Of course I am ” (impatiently). “ What should I see to love 
in a man who is \vrapped up in himself, and has the worst tem- 
per in the world ? What has put all these ridiculous ideas into 
your head ?” 

“ I beg your pardon, darling, for having doubted you an in- 
stant,” says poor Gerry, penitently, “ but no one can help seeing 
that he is in love with you, and from something he said I — I was 
afraid ” 

“Oho!” laughs Mignon. “What did he say? He is con- 
ceited enough to fancy I am dying of love for him. What did 
he say ?” 

“ He said” (hesitatingly), “ it was only natural that, when his 
heart spoke to yours, yours should answer.” 

Mignon bursts into such immoderate laughter that her brother 
cannot fail to be reassured. 

“ I wonder what his heart said, and what mine answered,” she 
cries, between two peals of laughter. “ I must ask him.” 

“ Yonnie! you would not surely do such a thing!” 

“ Well, no; it would hardly be safe. I should tease the life 
out of him, and raise his homicidal propensities. I don’t want 
my own blood shed, nor any one else’s on my account. And so ” 
(still laughing) “ he had the impudence to tell j^ou I was in love 
with him. Pray, did he favor you with any further confi- 
dences ?” 

“Yonnie, darling,” says the lad gravely, this is not a subject 
for jesting. It may amuse you, but you don’t know what pain 
it is giving to others.” 

“ Fable of the boys and the frog,” laughs Mignon. “ The boy 
and the frogs it ought to be. I am glad I am the boy.” 

“ If you let him think you care at all for him,” proceeds 
Gerry, with increased gravity, “ you foster his feelings and 
make him suffer all the more. And oh, Yonnie! I don't think 
you have any idea what pain it gives Sir Tristram. I watch him 
sometimes, and. though he seems not to notice anything, I know 
•he suffers agonies. I wonder you don’t see how worn and 
hunted his eyes look at times, how his hand trembles when he 
takes up a book and pretends to read, how he does not seem al- 
ways to hear when people speak to him.” 

“He is getting old and deaf,” scoffs Mignon. 

“ Don’t talk like that, dear. I think it is only your way. I 
can’t believe that you are really indifferent to other people’s 
sufferings.” 

“Why should people suffer?” cries Mignon, indi^antiy. 
“ No one could make me. I shouldn’t care the least if Sir Tris- 
tram preferred some one else’s company to mine. I wish he 
would.” 

This is not strictly true, for my lady has been extremely put 
out more than once by her husband seeming to take pleasure in 
Mrs. Stratheden’s society. Her dislike for Olga has gone on in- 
creasing steadily. They constantly meet at different houses in 


MIGNON. 


185 


the county, and as Mignon puts herself out of the way to be un- 
civil Olga keeps aloof from her. For Sir Tristram’s sake, whom 
she likes most heartily, she is anxious to avoid any open breach. 
;Mignon was furious with Gerry only the other day for having 
spoken enthusiastically of Mrs. Stratheden, whom lie had talked 
to at a garden-party. 

“ I don’t think you would like it,” says Gerry, replying to his 
sister’s remark. “ No one does. And if it would hurt you, who 
do not care very much about him, what do you think it must do 
to him, who worships the ground you walk on, when he sees you 
whispering and laughing with L’Estrange ?” 

“ I am sure he is very welcome to hear all our whisperings,” 
retorts Mignon; “if he did, I don’t think he would feel very 
jealous. However, thanks to you, his rival is gone, and for the 
matter of that, I don’t care if I never see him again.” 

“ Yonnie, darling,” whispers Gerry, looking with pleading 
eyes in her face, “ I want you to promise me something.” 

“Well ?” 

“ Promise me, when he comes back, not to let him be here so 
often, not to seem to give him encouragement.” 

“ I shan’t promise anything of the sort,” answers Mignon, 
knitting her fair brows. I am not going to be moped to death 
to please anybody. But if you think I am such an idiot as to be 
capable of giving up all I now have ” (with a wave of her hand) 
“ for the sake of Mr. Raymond L’Estrange, I can only regret 
your singular want of insight into character.” 

As it happens, Mignon does not miss Raymond in the least. 
Kitty is at Elmor, where she has a gay party; Mrs. Stratheden 
gives a series of charmilig entertainments at the Manor House, 
which Mignon ’s dislike of the hostess does not prevent her taking 
part in; there are parties at Bergholt; and, indeed, every one 
combines to make the autumn a gay and pleasant one. 

Raymond, in Scotland, is chafing furiously at his enforced ab- 
sence. The only consolation he has is derived from the convic- 
tion that Mignon is suffering some part of his pain. If he could 
only see her! Gerry has left to join his regiment; Mrs. Carlyle 
and her daughters have returned to Rose Cottage; and. of the 
■family, only Captain Carlyle remains at the Court, for partridge 
shooting. 

There is to be a large party in the house, and Mignon is look- 
ing forward with mingled nervousness and pleasure to the idea 
of playing hostess. She has very little trouble; Sir Tristi*am 
arranges everything for her. Since Raymond’s departure, he 
has grown young and cheerful again, almost happy; tor Mignon, 
slightly influenced by her brother’s remonstrance, treats him 
with a shade more consideration. 

Lord Threestars is to be one of the guests — a circumstance that 
gives unmitigated satisfaction to the lady of Bergholt. She is 
bent upon his conquest; he is a victim worthy her bow and 
spear, and poor Raymond vanishes from her fickle mind as stars 
wane when the sun rises. Poor Raymond, indeed! bad, wficked, 
unprincipled Raymond, who is going to be punished as he de* 
tterves. 


166 


MIGNON. 


Mignon fears no rival. True, there will be one or two good- 
looking women of the party, but my lady has spperb confidence 
in her own charms. She does not know yet that there is some- 
thing which can triumph over mere beauty — particularly when 
people are thrown together as they are in the country. Ah! 
there is more mischief done in three days in a country-house than 
in a whole London season. And do not the fair know it, and lay 
themselves out accordingly? 

Lord Tlireestars, who is a good deal courted and has a host 
of invitations, has decided upon accepting this one in remem- 
brance of Lady Bergholt's loveliness, and not at all ignorant of 
the contingent possibility of being made a victim of. He is a 
thorough man of the world, a good shot, a good rider, cleverer 
and better read than most men who live the purposeless life of 
a man of fashion, but it pleases him to assume a languor and a 
semblance of effeminacy; his best friend does not know why. 
Perhaps he heard in his youth the story of the fragile-looking 
exquisite whom, by way of a joke, a brawny scavenger splashed 
with mud as he passed. “Dirty fellah!” murmured the languid 
one, and, turning, picked the fellow up as if he had been a baby 
and flung him into his own mud-cart. At all events, that was 
his style, and men who had chanced to tackle my lord, relying 
on his delicate, indifiCerent appearance, had more than once come 
off second- best. 

Lord Threestars, as he dresses for dinner on the evening of his 
arrival at the Court, is devoutly hoping that the duty of taking 
his hostess in to dinner will not devolve upon him. 

“ She is looking lovely,” he reflects, “ perfectly, exquisitely 
lovely. I feel myself en train for a new emotion. If I sit next 
her at dinner and she eats much or not delicately, I am lost. My 

dear G , how right you are never to pronounce upon a woman 

until you have seen her eat!” 

This particular hobby about women eating is hereditary in 
Lord Threestars' family, and a source of great heart-burning to 
the lady portion of it. His father interdicts cheese and sherry 
for the female members of the family: if he had detected the^' 
faintest aroma of onion about them, dire would have been their 
disgi’ace. It was therefore the habit of these fair daughters of 
Eve, with the willfulness our first mother transmitted to us, as 
soon as their father was absent for a day or two, to cause their 
maids to bring hunches of bread and cheese and raio onions to 
their bedrooms. One day, after one of these orgies, my lord 
returned suddenly and unexpectedly. He was an affectionate 
father, and it was the habit of his daughters to greet his return 
with filial osculations. Oh, agony! despair! What was to be 
done! My lord had returned and was asking for my ladies, an- 
nounced the affrighted abigail. What could they do? They 
put their pretty mouths together and breathe into each other’s 
faces. “Oh, Ethel! do I smell of onions? Oh, Maud! do I? 
Oh, Gwen! do I? But alas! all alike are guilty, and cannot 
therefore pronounce any reliable opinion. 

My Ibrd’s voice is heard shouting in the distance. 

“Staj !’* cries Ethel, who has the genius of the family, and 


MIGNON. m 

she rushes to the chimney-piece; here is a cigarette I stole 
from Frank’s case. Let us all smoke ! He will be very angry, 
but it will be nothing to the onions.” 

Each takes two or three whiffs, and chokes and splutters. 
My lord’s voice comes nearer, louder, more impatient. Ethel 
flings the cigarette into the grate, and, rushing to the door, 
opens it and leads the van of culprits. 

“ What the devil are you all about? Where does the tobacco 
come from ? Have you got a man hiding up there ?” 

“ Oh, papa,” pleads Ethel, demurely, whilst the two other 
pretty little faces look very white and scared, “we have been 
very naughty, and you will be dreadfully angry with us, but we 
got a cigarette, and we have been trying to smoke. Oh, please, 
papa, we will never do it again!” 

“ Just let me catch you. you abandoned monkeys,” cries my 
lord, half angry, half amused, “ and I’ll get a birch rod and whip 
you all round. I only hope you’ll all be very sick. Don’t come 
near me! I won’t kiss one of you for a week!” 

And, as their father retreats down the corridor, the three 
wicked little minxes bury their heads in the pillows and give 
vent to stifled peals of laughter. 

When Lord Blank proposed to Lady Ethel last year, she made 
her acceptance conditional upon being permitted to eat onions. 
Strange to say, since she has been allowed to exercise her 
own judgment in the matter, her taste for that ambrosia has 
vanished, and one evening recently, when her husband kissed 
her after dinner, she said, with a charming little moue ; 

“ Really, darling, I think onions have rather a horrid smell!” 

Lady Bergholt has had nothing to do with the arrangement 
of the guests at dinner. She has only stipulated for one thing; 
that is, that as Lord Threestars cannot take her in to dinner, be- 
cause Lord Blankshire, a greater luminary, is dining, he shall at 
least sit on her left hand. What, therefore, is her sovereign 
displeasure on finding, as they take their seats, that Mrs. Strathe- 
den, who is the guest of the evening, has been allotted to him! 
Not that it is at all probable Lord Threestars will have any 
eyes for her in the presence of charms so infinitely superior. 
Alas for the vanity of human aspirations! Lord Threestars, 
shocked at the very outset by the eagerness with which Lady 
Bergholt conveys her soup to her mouth, turns for consolation 
to Olga, and finds her manners all that he can desire. She is al- 
ways a small eater, and, if amused in conversation, is apt to 
forget her dinner or to pay very little attention to it. She' and 
Lord Threestars take to each other at once; she is pleased with 
him, arid he is perfectly fascinated by her. Gradually he for- 
gets the very existence of his hostess, who grows every minute 
more angry and mortified as she watches the pair, and listens 
in sulky silence to the amiable inanities Lord Blankshire pours 
without ceasing into her ear. As soon as the ladies have left 
the room, he whispers to Fred Conyngham, who is a guest, in 
spite of Mignon’s dislike to him: 

> “ Who is that most charming woman ? T did not catch h^ r 


188 


MIGNON. 


name. Where have I seen her ? Her face is perfectly familiar 
to me.” 

“ You must have seen her everywhere in town where people 
congregate,” answers Fred. She is, as you say, most charm- 
ing. Her name is Stratheden, and she has a history.” 

And, nothing loath, Fred tells it to his interested auditor. 

As the days go on Mignon has the extreme mortification of 
finding that, although Lord Threestars pays great attention to 
her and- seems charmed with her society, he is becoming seri- 
ously epris with the mistress of the Manor House. Fred, only 
too glad to vex and mortify Lady Bergholt, whom he dislikes as 
cordially as she dislikes him, has taken Lord Threestars to call 
on Olga, and my lord has found excuses to repeat his visit more 
than once. Mrs. Stratheden has issued invitations for a fancy 
dress ball, and Mignon, much as she hates her rival, cannot 
make up her mind to punish herself by staying away. But she 
is determined not to extend Lord Threestars’ invitation over the 
ball, and positively forbids Sir Tristram to ask him to stay 
beyond the period for which he was originally invited. 

“But, my dear,” remonstrates her perplexed husband, “I 
thought he was such a favorite of yours. You were perfectly 
delighted at the thought of his coming.” 

“Some people don’t improve upon acquaintance,” answers 
Mignon; “ he is one. I think him very conceited, and he bores 
me dreadfully.” 

But Lord Threestars is not a man to be balked in his inten- 
tions: so from Bergholt he betakes himself to the Blankshires, 
and thence, for the ball, to Lady Clover’s. He has a great par- 
tiality for Kitty, and that little lady, not knowing how she is 
bringing herself into her friend’s black books, has been only too 
delighted to further Lord Threestars’ wish to be near Mrs. Strath- 
eden. She is an inveterate matchmaker besides. 

“ Jo, my dear,” she says, patronizingly, to her still adoring 
husband, “ I want your advice.” 

“ Do you, my dear?” he returns, placidly. “ That is a new 
sensation for me. Is it anything about a gown ?” 

“Gown!” echoes Kitty, derisively. “ My dear Jo, I believe 
you were a hundred years old when you were born. Our grand* 
mothers wore gowns: we wear toilettes.^' 

“ I rather wish I had been a hundred years old when I was 
born,” says Sir Josias, meditatively. “ What an enormous deal 
of experience I should have gained by this time!” 

“ Experience!” cries Kitty. “ I cannot imagine why any one 
should want experience. It only means finding out that every* 
thing is a delusion and a snare, and learning not to trust any 
body or to hope for anything.” 

Sir Josias smiles benevolently, 

“ That is not badly put, my dear, but it is rather a one-sided 
view of the case. But about my advice ?” 

“ I want Lord Tlireestars and Olga to marry each other. How 
am I to accomplish it ?” 

Sir Josias looks thoughtfuL 


MIGNON. 


189 


“Are you prepared to act upon my advice lie asks, pres- 
ently. 

“ Perhaps; that is, if it should coincide with my own opin- 
ion.” 

“ Precisely,” smiles her husband. “ That is the only advice I 
ever knew any one take.” 

“Well ?” interrogates Kitty. 

Leave them quite alone, and don’t attempt to meddle with 
their affairs in any way whatever.” 

Kitty, perched in her favorite attitude upon the table, a habit 
that is a source of great grief and disgust to the dowager Lady 
Clover, looks disdainfully at her lord. 

“ Your advice does not at all coincide with my opinion,” she 
remarks, dryly; “indeed, it is as absolutely worthless as most 
men’s suggestions on similar subjects. Still, dear, as you mean 
well, and I asked you for it, if you like to come this way I will 
give you a kiss.” 


CHAPTER XXX 

“Letypedela femme coquette, ‘que ne connait d’amour que celui 
qu’elle inspire,’ remonte a une tres haute antiquite, puisque Aphrodite 
est representee dans I’hymne homerique comme etant elle-meme froide 
et insensible, mais occupee toujours a inspirer d’une facon irresistible 
les sentiments amoureux aux dieux et aux hommes.” 

Lady Bergholt's frame of mind is far from enviable. Her 
affections are not at all engaged, but her vanity is, and to be 
rivaled by a woman whom she chooses to consider old, passe, 
utterly inferior to herself in personal charms, is inexpressibly 
galling to her. But it is the secret consciousness of Olga’s real 
superiority that makes her so bitter; it is in the inward recogni- 
tion of a grace, a delicacy, a breeding she lacks herself, that in- 
tensifies her hatred of Olga. Fred Conyngham reads her through 
and through, and takes a malicious delight in punishing her by 
praising her rival. He is too good a judge to address his praises 
to her personally, but he takes care that she will be within ear- 
shot, and that the qualities he commends with the most enthu- 
siasm shall be those which she most obviously lacks. 

Raymond is coming home on purpose for the ball, and Mign- 
on, with a vindictive desire to revenge herself on her husband 
and Fred Conyngham for their regard for Mrs. Stratheden, to 
show Lord Threestars how perfectly indifferent she is to him, 
and to punish everybody individually and collectively, has made 
up her mind to flirt desperately with him. 

The night comes and goes; the ball is a perfect success, but 
some hearts that came light to it go heavily away. When Olga 
and Mignon come face to face, very different feelings ani- 
mate their breasts. Olga looks at the loveliness before her, en- 
hanced fourfold to-night, with an admiration as hearty as it is 
unfeigned, but Mignon, with grudging, envious mortification, is 
forced to admit that Mrs. Stratheden is capable of looking both 
young and beautiful. Mignon represents Snow; Olga, as usual 
in fancy dress, a French marquise. Raymond is a mousquetaire, 


190 


MIGNOK 


and uncommonly handsome he looks; Fred Conyrightnn makes 
a capital priest from the “ Barber of Seville;” Sir Tristram is a 
Venetian gentleman, Lord Threestars a distinguished Edgar 
Bavenswood, and his hostess looks bewitching as a very incor- 
rect representation of Old Mother Hubbard. 

“ I wanted Jo to come as the dog, with a collar round his 
neck,” says the mischievous little lady, who has not in the slight- 
est degree overcome her love of persiflage; “ but he would not. 
It was very ill-natured of him. Then t tried to induce Lord 
Threestars; but in vain. So the public must kindly imagine 
that this is the period at which the poor dog is dead.” 

“You should have asked me,” says Fred, who is standing 
near. 

“Oh, you would have looked so ferocious, I am afraid you 
would have frightened the company,” laughs Kitty. 

“ My bark is worse than my bite,” says Fred. 

“I don’t know,” retorts Kitty, archly. “I have seen your 
capabilities for both.” 

“ I never bite the hand that feeds me,” answers Fred, with a 
smile. 

“ Don’t you ?” asks Mignon, meaningly. 

“ Never!” he answers, looking her full in the face. (Then, with 
a little bow), “ That is the prerogative of your ex.” 

“ Quarreling as usual!” cries Kitty. “ I am quite sure that, in 
a previous state, one of you must have been a cat and the other 
a dog.” 

“I believe we have all been animals,” answers Fred, laugh- 
ing; “ our sex, lions, dogs, wolves; yours, tigers, and cats, and 
foxes.” 

“You have forgotten one species for your sex,” interposes 
Mignon. * 

“Yes?” says Fred, interrogatively. 

“ Bears /” replies my lady, turning on her heel amid the general 
laugh, in which Fred joins with perfect frankness. 

Mignon flings herself into a reckless flirtation with Raymond, 
and the pair are so conspicuous for their beauty that they cannot 
escape attention, as others less remarkable might do. Lord 
Threestars. who finds it impossible to exchange a word in private 
with his hostess, so completely is she engrossed with the devoirs 
of the evening, would fain compensate himself with the charms 
of his late lovely hostess; but she turns her back upon him. This 
is the hour of Raymond’s triumph: this seems a compensation to 
him for the misery, the loneliness, the longings, of his banish- 
ment: he does not guess that his triumph is the result of Mignon’s 
pique, but believes all that his heart most desires to believe. 
Lady Bergholt will not even grant one dance to his rival, humbly 
though he prays. 

“ I have not seen Mr. L’Estrange for an age,” she says, with a 
malicious sparkle in her splendid eyes, “ and I have so much to 
say to him. I have promised to dance every round dance with 
him to-night.” 

“ Then my case is hopeless, returns Lord Threestars, dropping 


MIONON, 


191 


his glass; ‘‘ for I could not submit to be tantalized by dancing a 
square dance with your ethereal majesty.” 

“ It would be equally useless to ask for that either,” says Mign- 
on, audaciously. “ I have promised to sit out all the square 
dances with Mr. L’Estrange.” 

Lord Threestars replaces his glass in his eye, gives one curious 
little look at his fair interlocutor, makes his bow, and de- 
parts. 

Raymond’s eyes glow with suppressed fire; he stoops and 
murmurs something in her ear. A slight color tinges her cheek, 
and she shakes her head impatiently. 

“Do not begin that,” she says, in a low voice. “ Come.” And, 
as they glide off together in the waltz, all eyes follow them. 

It is fortunate for Sir Tristram that he has elected on this even- 
ing to sit down to whist, so that he is quite unaware of what is 
generally remarked upon by the rest of the company. 

Lady Blankshire, who is the model of propriety, is shocked 
and disgusted. She calls Olga to her, and makes some very 
sweeping comments upon Lady Bergholt’s behavior. 

“ What can Sir Tristram bethinking of?” she cries, virtuously 
indignant. “ It is a perfect scandal to the county. 1 shall cer- 
tainly not invite her to my house again if she behaves in this 
manner; it is positively disgraceful. This comes of a man mar- 
rying a woman young enough to be his daughter.” 

Mrs. Stratheden might easily revenge herself on Mignon for 
many past rudenesses. To be in Lady Blanksh ire’s black books 
is a very serious thing in the county, and Olga has only to agree 
with what her ladyship says, as indeed she very well may. 

But that is not her way. She is never spiteful and bitter 
against other women; on the contrary, she makes herself in- 
variably the champion of her sex. 

Ah! if women were only loyal to each other — if they only had 
the common sense to see how much more they would strengthen 
their own hands in standing by each other than by taking ad- 
vantage of every opportunity to pull their own sex to pieces— they 
would rob men of the delight they take now in asserting that 
women are each other’s natural enemies. No woman thinks 
well of a man who speaks against his sex; how should men think 
well of a woman who is guilty of the same treachery ? 

Olga does not join in Lady Blankshire’s strictures. She ex- 
cuses Mignon’s indiscretion on the ground of her youth, her 
beauty, the very innocence that makes her parade what, except 
for it, she would try to hide. Lady Blankshire is not easily 
pacified. 

“ Really,” she says, fanning herself in a severe and dignified 
manner, “ the present state of society is disgraceful. The man- 
ner in which young married women conduct themselves is too 
shocking. I am determined not to give my countenance to it. 
What with divorces and esclandres, our best families will soon be 
decimated.” 

A little later, my lady pours the same indignant comments 
into Kitty’s ear. 

“ I am quite ashamed of her,” answers Kitty, who, in truth, 


192 


MIGNON, 


is extremely uneasy about her friend, and to-morrow I intend 
to give her a thorough scolding.” 

“ I fear she is too flighty for any scolding to take effect upon 
her,” says Lady Blankshire, severely. “ I think, for the sake of 
the county, some one should speak to her husband. I have 
serious thoughts of proposing to Blankshire to do it.” 

“Oh, no, dear Lady Blankshire! pray don’t!” cries Kitty 
eagerly. ‘ ‘ It would break his heart. Leave her to me. I assure 
you she does not care in the least for Eaymond. It is only some 
whim she has taken into her head.” 

“ Poor Mrs. L’Estrange!” utters Lady Blankshire, shaking her 
head. “ I always thought her son would turn out badly. She 
spoiled him so as a boy.” 

“ Oh, please don’t be hard on Eaymond,” says Kitty, who is a 
stanch little champion. “ And, after all, she is so very lovely, 
it is only natural that he should admire her. 

“ My dear,” replies her ladyship, severely, “ there are limits 
where admiration ceases and impropriety commences.” 

Well may the general gaze rest on that splendid pair, and 
well may the more kindly -minded of the spectators say, with a 
tinge of regret: 

“ What a magniflcent couple they would have made!” 

Eaymond’s beauty is accentuated by his dress; the white wig 
he wears throws into relief his clear-cut features, which are lit 
up with a radiance that extreme happiness can alone give. To 
the outside world Mignon must needs seem dazzlingly lovely; 
but to one who sought the graces of sympathy and tenderness 
which best beseem womanhood, her beauty would have lacked 
something. It was the charm that pre-eminently characterized 
Mrs. Strath eden. 

Lady Clover had been amused by Lord Threestars’ idea of the 
two women. 

“ Lady Bergholt ought to have been born dumb,” he said. 
“ She should have been exhibited as come lovely picture or 
statue, and she would have charmed the whole world. As she 
is, one is always trying to get amends by her beauty for her 
extraordinary talent for /romer-ing one’s tenderest sensibilities. 
With Mrs. Stratheden, every time she opens her lips she becomes 
more charming, more fascinating, she endears herself more to 
one, until one is surprised to And oneself thinking her beautiful. 
It seems to me that it would be a positive luxury to have a great 
gi’ief, only to be consoled by a woman like that.” 

“ I am afraid you are very much in love,” says Kitty, with an 
arch smile. 

“ I think I begin to know what love means,” he answers, in 
a low voice, “ and it is singularly unlike what I imagined it be- 
fpre.” 

Fred Conyngham is going about with a serene smile, offering 
liberally to receive confessions from the prettiest women in the 
room, but in his heart he is furious. Without appearing to re- 
mark her, he has been carefully watching Mignon, and his 
shrewd glance has not failed to appreciate the general view 
taken of her conduct by the rest of the company. His one great 


MIGNON. 


193 


desire is to save his friend the pang of seeing it too; every now 
and then he glides stealthily into the card-room, and breathes a 
sigh of relief as he sees Sir Tidstram still engaged at whist. He 
is a good player, and has been used to play a great deal before 
his marriage; the three other players areas good as himself; 
and, on the whole, whilst every one is pitying him, he is spend- 
ing an unusually pleasant evening. 

Not until they are driving back to Bergholt does Fred breathe 
freely. 

“ Did you enjoy yourself, my darling ?” asks Sir Tidstram of 
his lovely wife, as she throws herself back in the carriage with 
a yawn. 

“ Oh, yes,” she answers, nonchalantly; ^‘it was very well got 
up, and the dresses were exceedingly good.” 

“ I need not ask if you had many partners,” says Sir Tristram, 
smiling. 

At this moment they pass through the lodge-gates, which are 
brilliantly lighted. Mignon sees that Fred’s eyes are fixed in- 
tently upon her. The deep color mounts to her unwilling face. 

I did not have many partners,” she answers, in a defiant 
tone, “ but I danced as often as I felt inclined.” 

As is frequently the case, no suspicion was aroused in the 
mind of her husband. 

Contrary to his usual habit, Fred scarcely slept at all that 
night, or rather morning. He was soliloquizing jeremiads over 
his friend, and breathing out wrath and threatenings against his 
friend’s wife; he had begun to hate her very beauty, as though 
it were a leprosy. Selfish and heartless though she was, she was 
not so bad as Fred painted her; there was no word in his exten- 
sive repertoire crude or expressive enough to embrace all he felt 
about her. He musty he would speak to her, though she ordered 
him out of the house then and there. 

The opportunity he desired was not slow to present itself= 
There was but one lady guest left at Bergholt, and she, fatigued 
with last night’s exertions, was still in her room. Sir Tristram 
and two guests of his own sex had gone shooting, very much 
surprised at Fred’s defalcation. Mignon guessed the reason of 
his remaining at home, and resolved to disappoint him, hurried 
away to the wood. But Fred’s keen eyes had caught a vision of 
a white dress flitting past the shrubs, and, in a leisurely man- 
ner, he prepared to give chase. He was in no hurry; the 
task before him required plenty of consideration; it was more 
than delicate. Mignon, having reached the wood, considered 
herself perfectly safe, and had not the remotest suspicion of the 
foe being on her track. When therefore Fred suddenly appeared 
close beside her, she was the victim of a most unpleasant sur- 
prise. 

“ You make a charming picture, my lady,” he says, hating to 
flatter her as he would hate to give the favorite morsel from his 
plate to a pampered dog that worried him. But to dborder m}^ 
lady with anything but fair and flattering speech would be to 
defeat his own object at starting. His words are but simple 
truth, too. It is a bright, warm morning for late September, 


194 


MIGNON, 


and Mignon is clad in her favorite white muslin and lace. She 
wears heavy gold ornaments, which become her particularly 
well. My lady has quite a barbaric taste for jewelry, and never 
thinks it out of place at any period of the day; the novelty of 
wearing handsome ornaments no doubt enhances her natural 
love for them. 

“ I was just going back to the house,” she says, rising ab- 
ruptly, and not attempting to conceal the fact that his company 
is distasteful to her. 

“ A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair,’’ 

quotes Fred, with his most agreeable smile. There is nothing 
Mignon desires so little as to give her adversary a cue; but she is 
innocent of tact, and can never resist saying something snappish 
to Fred. 

So she remarks, with a curl of her upper lip and a slight dilat- 
ing of the fine nostril; 

“ What a very nasty powder you must have hidden behind so 
much sweet!” 

“ No,” answers Fred, with an assumption of bonhomie and a 
delightful smile. “ I wish it all to be sweet this morning. Pray 
take pity upon me and don't run away. Now, if you would only 
sit down and talk to me for half an hour, and let me smoke a 
cigar! I know you are one of the few of your sex who do not 
pretend to object to it.” 

“ It depends upon who the smoker is,” retorts Mignon. 

‘‘ These are exactly the same cigars that Threestars smokes,” 
says Fred, imperturbably, opening his case. “ I assure you the 
aroma will be precisely the same whether they are in his mouth 
or mine.” 

“But you know,” answers my lady, who would not throw 
away a chance of being spiteful to Fred for the world, “one 
often says one likes the smell because, if one objected, the man 
would go and smoke somewhere else, and, perhaps, one likes his 
society.” 

“Which does not apply in my case,” answers Fred, with as 
pleasant a smile as though she had paid him a charming compli- 
ment. 

“ Certainly not,” agrees Mignon. 

“Do you permit me?” he askes, his case still open in his 
hand. 

“ Since I am going, it does not matter.” 

Fred shuts the case with a snap. 

“ I would ratlier forego anything than the pleasure of your 
company. Won’t you sit down just as you were ? I should like 
to make a little sketch of you.” 

So saying, he puts away his cigar-case and takes out a good- 
sized pocket-book. He is perfectly aware that there is nothing 
more fascinating to a vain woman than having her portrait 
taken. 

“ Can yon?” cbe asks, doubtfully. 


MIONON. 


196 


For ar wer he shows her three heads of people who have lately 
been at the Court; the likenesses are unmistakable. 

Mignon seats herself. In the first place, the idea of being 
sketched is agreeable to her; in the second, she does not know 
how to beguile the hours until lunch- time; in the third, a pas- 
sage of arms with Fred is not distasteful to her, particularly 
when unrestrained by her husband’s presence from hitting as 
hard as she likes. 

“ Can you sit still for a quarter of an hour?” asks Fred, begin* 
ning to sharpen his pencil. 

“ I don’t know; it is a long time.” 

“ Perhaps it would only bore you,” suggests Fred, pausing in 
his operation. 

‘‘ Oh, no, not at all.” 

I don’t know that I am in the vein this morning,” says Fred, 
hanging back in proportion as Mignon is becoming eager. I 
can never do anything until I have had my smoke.” 

“ Well, have your smoke,” utters my lady, ungraciously. 

‘‘Really?” asks Fred. “That is very kind of you.” And 
without more ado, he lights a cigar. “ Now I feel happy,” he 
says, leaning against a tree and looking full at Mignon. “You 
must not mind my staring at you. I want to get you perfectly 
into my head before I begin.”" 

Then Mr. Conyngham lays himself out to be agreeable. He 
tells her a host of little stories and scandals which perfectly de- 
light her. Fred is a capital story-teller, and he is careful to say 
nothing that can offend young ears, which are generally delicate 
if inquisitive. So amused is Mignon that she patiently allows 
him to smoke the whole of his cigar, a favor he had not counted 
upon. 

“ Now,” he says, at last, throwing the end away, “ may I be- 
gin my sketch ?” 

“ Yes, do,” answers my lady, quite affably. 

“I have only one stipulation,” says Fred, beginning to make 
rather a favor of it; “you must not want to look at it until I 
have finished.” 

Mignon promises. 

“ Now, my lady,” says Fred to himself, “ I think I have you 
safe. I can say what I like. Your curiosity won’t permit you 
to run away until I have finished your picture.” 


196 


MIQNON. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Gondarino.—^*' Heav’n. if my sins be ripe grown to a Head, 

And must attend your Vengeance, I beg not to divert my Fate, 

Or to reprieve awhile thy Punishment; 

Only I crave, and hear me, equal Heav’ns, 

Let not your furious Rod, that must afflict me, 

Be that imperfect Piece of Nature, 

That Art makes up. Woman, unsatiate Woman. 

Had we not knowing souls, at first infus’d 
To teach a difference ’twixt Extremes and Good? 

Were we not made ourselves, free, unconfin’d 
Commanders of our owi^ Affections? 

And can it be that this most perfect creature, 

This Image of his Maker, well-squar’d man. 

Should leave the Handfast that he had of grace 
To fall into a Woman’s easy Arms?” 

Beaumont and Fletcher, 

Fred makes a few strokes with his pencil in silence. Mignon 
permits her face to expand into a smile, that he may have every 
facility for making a charming study of her. 

“ I forget if you know Lady Agnes Lane?” he says, presently, 
without pausing in his occupation. 

“ I have met her,” answers Mignon. I don’t think her so 
very pretty; do you?” 

‘•No; she was never one of my beauties. I had news of her 
this morning. There is a terrible esclandre about her, though it 
has not all come out yet.” 

Mignon leans a little forward; the misdoings and misfortunes 
of her sex have a lively interest for her. 

“ That makes another woman over whose head the waves have 
closed this season,” remarks Fred, busy at his sketch, and only 
snatching an occasional glance at his fair sitter. ‘ ‘ She will 
never hold up her head again.” 

“ Tell me about it,” says Mignon, unwary of the snare that is 
being laid for her. 

“ Her husband would have forgiven her; but she would none 
of his forgiveness, and insisted on rushing blindfold to destruc- 
tion. ‘ Whom the gods would destroy, they first deprive of rea- 
son.’ That applies particularly to your sex, I think, my lady.” 

“What did she do? Did she run away?” asks Mignon, 
eagerly, not heeding the comments with which Fred garnishes 
his tale. 

“ Would you like to hear the story ? I will tell it you. I need 
not ask you not to repeat it; ladies never do. Your face a little 
more that way, if you please. Lady Agnes, as every one knows, 
was poor, and Lane was rich, and a capital fellow into the 
bargain: it is always your good fellows whom women treat the , 
worst. He gave her everything she could want, and was devoted 
to her; but, being a woman, of course that was not enough, and 
she began to cast about her liow she might best requite his good- 
ness by treachery.” 


MIGNON. 197 

Mignon, eager to hear the story, passes over Fred’s cynical 
strictures on her sex. 

A vivid red mantles in Mignon’s cheeks; the drift of his story 
has just flashed across her. 

Did you come here after me on purpose to tell me that 
story ?” she asks, with kindling eyes. 

Yes,” answers Fred, in his quietest voice, apparently absorbed 
in his sketch. “ Don’t move, please” (for she makes as though 
to rise); “ it is a pity to spoil your picture for the sake of three 
minutes.” 

Fred is calculating the effect of every word, though his tone 
is as unconcerned as if he were prescribing a remedy for a cold 
in the head. 

“ I want to warn you, lest your case and Lady Agnes’ should 
ever become analogous. I do not think, for my own part, that 
you are a woman to give up rank and wealth for passion’s sake; 
but you are young and beautiful, and thoughtless, and I think 
you ought to know how seriously you are compromising your- 
self.” 

All this in the same matter-of-fact tone, whilst his pencil 
sketches on. He does not look up, though he quite conjectures 
the wrath that flames in those deep-colored eyes. 

Lady Bergholt is fairly speechless with astonishment and rage. 

‘‘ Every one was talking about you last night,” continues Fred, 
mercilessly. “I did not pass a group among whom you were 
not the topic of conversation. Lady Blankshire said it would be 
impossible to invite you to her house again.” 

Fred has hit hard this time. 

Mignon crimsons over neck and brow; she positively gasps for 
breath. 

Lady Blankshire is an old cat,” she cries, her rage overcom- 
ing her dignity. “ And I shall tell her to mind her own busi- 
ness when I see her — yes, I shall, if she were fifty times Lady 
Blankshire.” 

“ I think she considers it her business to watch over the morals 
and manners of the county,” remarks Fred. 

I will do as I like, in spite of her,” cries Mignon, in a passion 
of impotent wrath. 

“ It was not only Lady Blankshire,” proceeds Fred, remorse- 
lessly; “there was not a woman in the room who did not con- 
demn you— except Mrs. Stratheden.” 

“ Mrs. Stratheden!” shrieks Mignon, fairly beginning to cry 
with rage. “ I believe it is all a wicked plot of hers, and that 
she has been spreading shameful, abominable lies about me. 
Or else” (with flaming eyes) “it is you — yes, you and she be- 
tween you.” 

“ What I told you is gospel truth,” says Fred, quite unmoved, 
“ and I have told you because it is right that you sliould know. 
I do not tell you from any love for you, as 3011 know: how 
could I care for you, when your husband is the greatest friend I 
have in the world, and I see you breaking his heart! The 
truest, loyalest heart in the world!” cries Fred, bursting into 
passion; “ and you would see and know it— if you were not a 


198 


MTGNON. 

woman. What do yon think you would gain by exchanging 
him for that handsome, ill-tempered young fool L’Estrange ? 
How you would hate each other in a month!” 

“ How dare you mix up my name with his!” cries Mignon. 
** And what is it to you ?” 

“Pardon me,” says Fred, gravely. “It is you who have 
mixed up your name with his by ostentatiously devoting the 
whole of last night to him, by permitting him to betray in every 
gesture, every look, his passion for you, which I might say he 
did in the face of every one with a singular want of delicacy or 
consideration for you. And you ask what it is to me ? Person- 
ally, nothing. It can only affect me through the man who is 
my friend. Forgive me if I say that I have had pleasanter 
visits at Bergholt before you were chatelaine here, and if it 
pleased you to give up your chatelaineship by your own act I 
might look forward to pleasanter visits again. So, you see, my 
advice is not prompted by any selfish interest — rather the other 
way. Once more allow me to say, if you are not prepared to 
sacrifice everything for Mr. L’Estrange, do not draw down upon 
yourself the censure and the coldness of every woman in the 
county.” 

Mignon is fairly cowed. It is a bitter pang to her vanity to 
hear that she has incurred the disapproval of society, and Fred’s 
utter indifference to provoking her wrath is not without its 
effect. 

She is silent whilst Mr. Conyngham adds a few rapid touches 
to his sketch. 

“ I have finished,” he says, jumping up as if no unpleasant 
dialogue had taken place between them. And he places his 
sketch before Mignon. He has made it as charming as possible, 
though the task of embellishing nature in this instance was not 
easy. 

Mignon condescends to look, in spite of her wrath, and, look- 
ing, is mollified. 

“ May I have it ?” she asks. 

“Certainly. I had no other intention in making it than of 
presenting it to you, if you deir^ned to accept it.” 

Not another word is said on the previous subject, and as they 
walk toward the house together, a casual observer might believe 
them the best friends in the vcrld. As they reach the hall-door, 
Lady Clover’s carnage is coming up the drive. 

“ I am so glad you have come i” says Mignon, heartily. “ How 
did you manage to get away ?” 

“ Oh, the men have rone shooting, and the women are doing 
needlework and tearing friends to pieces. I pleaded important 
business. Oh, dear! how late we were last night! But what a 
charming ball! Mr. Conyngham, I did not confess half my in- 
iquities to yon. You must tell me where I left off, and I will 
finish the recital— -but not now. I am quite tired, and my head 
aches. Mignon, take me to your boudoir.” 

“This is unlucky,” murmurs Fred to himself. “ I guess the 
errand my little lady has come on. Two in one morning will be 
too much. She will just spoil the effect of mine.” 


MIGNOK 


199 


Lady Clover and her hostess take their way to the boudoir; 
but, once there, all Kitty’s languor vanishes, she shuts the door 
firmly, and, placing herself before Mignon, says, resolutely: 

“ I have come to scold you. I am very angry with you indeed. 
How could you behave so last night ?” 

Now, Lady Bergholt is chafing and furious from Fred’s attack, 
and is not at all in the humor to receive a second lecture: so, in- 
stead of taking impetuous Kitty’s remarks in good part, she 
stiffens her back, and says, with extreme hauteur: 

I beg your pardon. I do not understand you.” 

Lady Clover is a little taken aback. 

“ My dear,” she says, with more dignity than one would expect 
from so small and youthful a personage, I have come here at 
great inconvenience this morning, solely for friendship’s sake, to 
warn you.” 

‘‘ That is what all meddlers and busybodies say,” retorts 
Mignon. “ I can only say I regret your having put yourself to 
great inconvenience on my account.” 

“ Mignon!” cries Kitty, surprise and anger fighting for mas* 
tery. 

“ Lady Clover!” says Mignon, defiantly. 

Kitty is half minded to turn her back upon her friend and go 
home again. She walks to the window to collect herself; whilst 
Lady Bergholt sits down calmly and plays with a paper-knife; 
the old, mulish look is on her lovely face. 

Presently Kitty comes to the table. 

‘‘ I am not going to quarrel with you,” she says, gently. “ I 
have not known you very long; still, we have been friends, 
and J am fond of you. Do not be angry with me! I am 
only saying to you what I would say to my own sister if I had 
one.” 

Lady Bergholt is silent. 

‘‘ I do not believe you care about Paymond really,” proceeds 
Kitty, earnestly; ‘‘then why should you let him compromise 
you ?” 

“ Compromise!” repeats Mignon, angrily. I am sick of the 
word!” 

“ Has some one else been talking to you?” asks Kitty, eagerly. 
‘^If they have they are quite right. Oh, Mignon! I know 3^011 
don’t mean anything, but Raymond does; it is a triumph to him 
for you to let him devote himself to you as he did last night, and 
every one was talking about it and shrugging their shoulders. 
And Lady Blankshire ” 

I don’t care a pin for Lady Blankshire!” cries Mignon, wrath- 
fully. “ I suppose I have my own position in the county, and 
am not dependent upon her patronage.” 

“I am afraid,” says Elitty, reluctantly, ‘Hhat if she went 
against you, all the county would go after her. But don’t let us 
suppose such a thing for a moment— she vron’t go against you: 
you won’t give her cause. Is Raymond worth it ?” 

‘‘ Yes,” answers Mignon, willfully. She does not mean it, but 
a passionate resistance has been roused in her. 

“ What!” cries Kitty, aghast. 


200 


MIGNOX. 


If you are tied to an old man you don’t care for,” says 
Mignon, coldly, “ what more natural than to fancy a man who 
is young and handsome and who adores you ?” 

Kitty feels a chill creeping through her veins; she was not 
prepared for this. 

“ Do you mean to say,” she whispers, in a horrified voice, 
“ that, having a husband like Sir Tristram, who is so good to 
you, who worships you, who has given you everything you pos- 
sess, you, you dare to— good heavens! how shall I say it! — you 
dare to tliink of another man as — as a lover ?” 

“Why not?” asks Mignon, defiantly. She is in a reckless 
mood, and takes a pleasure in making herself out ten times 
worse than she is. “You are similarly circumstanced; you 
ought to understand. I dare say if you took a fancy to a young 
man, you would do very much as I do.” 

“ Never!” cries Kitty, with passionate energy. “ If I thought 
I could be false to the man who trusts me, and to whom I have 
sworn to be faithful, I would drown myself or take poison! If 
I felt myself beginning to care for any other man, I would go to 
my husband and confess it to him, and never see the man again. 
To be so mean, so base! to take all a man can give you, to swear 
to be true to him, and then to treat him with contempt, as if he 
were a thing to be despised, just because he loves and trusts you 
so entirely! Oh, I can understand a woman whose husband ill- 
treats her, who is cruel and unfaithful to her, revenging herself 
by fiying to another man — small revenge, poor soul, if she is a 
woman; but a man who has heaped you with benefits, whose 
heart you break by your wickedness ” 

“ Pooh!” says Mignon, coldly; “ don’t be so high-fiown! I am 
not gone yet.” 

‘ ‘ How are you going to stop ? Where do you intend to draw 
the line ?” cries Kitty, exasperated. “If you are only playing 
with Raymond, and leading him on, what will he do when he 
finds you out ? And if you behave to him and let him behave 
to you as you did last night, how will you make the world be- 
lieve there is no harm in it ?” 

“Harm!” exclaims Mignon, reddening. “What do yon 
mean ?” 

“ Ah,” returns Kitty, “ I dare say you don’t know the sort of 
things men think and say about women: I don’t suppose Sir 
Tristram tells you. They don’t believe in a woman flirting with 
a man and letting him make love to her harmlessly; they are so 
wicked themselves, and their minds are such sinks of iniquity, 
things that seem trifles to us they magnify into enormities. Do 
you think / would give them a chance to sneer at me, and say 
horrid things behind my back, and shrug their shoulders at me, 
when all the time I knew I was virtuous and innocent? Pah!” 
(with a gesture of disgust), “ it is so common nowadays to be 
lightly thought of, it is something to make oneself respected,” 

Mignon’s eyes are ablaze with wrath. 

“ If you came here for the sole purpose of insulting me, Lady 
Clover,” she cries, “I am sorry you put yourself to the great 
inconvenience of coming.” 


MIGNOK 


<eoi 

No, no, dear,” cries Kitty, running to her; I cam© with 
nothing but kind intentions as friend to friend, as you might 
have come to me if our positions had been reversed.” 

Mignon pushes her away. 

“ You are no friend of mine,” she says, Avrathfull3^‘ and I 
only hope I shall never see you again. I shall not trouble Elmor 
with my presence, you may be quite sure; and I hope you will 
not give me the trouble of refusing to see you by coming here.” 

Do not be afraid!” answers Kitty, whose temper is thoroughly 
roused by this time. “ May I trouble you to order my carriage ? 
I will walk toward the lodge, and it can overtake me.” 

With this she opens the door and departs. Fred is in the hall; 
he sees that something serious has happened, and follows her in 
silence as she leaves the house. 

Your mission has been unsuccessful, then ?” he whispers, as 
he walks beside her down the avenue. 

“ Don’t speak to me! don’t look at me!’ cries Kitty, with tears 
in her eyes. ‘‘ I hate everything and everybody! I should like 
to burn every man and drown every woman! All men are 
wretches, monsters, selfish, wicked, good-for-nothing creatures; 
and as for women, they are ” 

“ What ?” asks Fred, calmly. 

“Worse!” cries Kitty, in a fury, “I have no patience with 
them.” 

“ And pray what are you ?” says Fred. “ Are you wicked, and 
a wretch, and a monster ?” 

“ Worse! worse! it is a dreadful word to say, but I am a 
FOOL.” 

“Ah, my dear little lady,” answers Fred, “ we can most of us 
lay that fiattering unction to our souls at some period of our 
lives. Now let me translate your mystic language. In the 
goodness of your heart, you came to give your fair friend a little 
advice, and she has not taken it in the spirit you intended it.” 

“I was never so insulted,” cries Kitty. “She positively 
ordered me out of the house, and begged I would never entdr it 
again.” 

“ Unfortunately, you see,” says Fred, “ I, innocent of your 
excellent intentions, had just been performing the same office; 
and two lectures in one morning proved too much for our lovely 
hostess, who, by the way, has a bit of a temper.” 

“ If I had only known!” laments Kitty. “ And the trouble 
and inconvenience I put myself to to come! — the excuses I had 
to make! — the stories I had to tell! Oh, what shall I do?” (sud- 
denly breaking off). “Here comes Sir Tristram. What can I 
say to him ?” 

“Kitty!” cries Sir Tristram, as he approaches, “and coming 
away from the house! What does this mean?” 

Kitty excuses her departure in so innocent and plausible a 
fashion that Fred says to himself: 

“ What fools we are to think so much of Macchiavelli, when 
there is one lurking in every petticoat ? I’ve got a pretty cool 
head, I flatter myself, but 1 couldn’t have got out of it in tlrat 
fashion.” 


MIGNOJS: 

“ What made Kitty start off just at lunch-timer’ Bir IVistram 
asks Mignon. 

Fred, the only other person present, is anxious to hear her 
answer, 

“ She is an odious little hypocrite,” answers Mignon, vindic- 
tively, ‘ and I never want to see her again.” 

“I trust you have not been quarreling?” says Sir Tristram, 
looking distressed. 

“ Yes, we have, very much quarreling?” answers my lady. 

“ What on earth about?” asks her husband. 

“ Nothing that concerns you,” replied Mignon, meeting his in- 
quiring eyes full. 

“For telling you a lie, and looking you straight in the face, 
commend me to a woman !” soliloquizes Fred. 

I am ashamed to chronicle his savage cynicisms on the fair sex; 
but some men are such brutes, and I hope all lady readers will 
revenge themselves by detesting him. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ And let me ask, how can that crime be considered pardoEu,b'e in a 
man which renders a woman infamous? .... Men in the pride of their 
hearts are apt to suppose that nature has designed them tc be superior 
to women. The highest proof that can be given of such superiority is 
the protection afforded by the stronger to the weaker. What can that 
man say for his pretension who employs all iiis arts to seduce and betray 
the creature whom he should guide and protect?” 

Sir Charles Grand Ison, 

Kitty is boiling over with wrath as she drives home from her 
unsatisfactory interview with Mignon. To put yourself to epn- 
si'ierable inconvenience for friendship's sake, to drive many 
miles in the hot sun for the purpose of telling a truth, that, 
however unpalatable, is none the less the truth, to assume, after 
much consideration robbed from sleep, the delicate apd difficult 
role of Mentor, and in return for all these sacrifices offered at 
the shrine of friendship, to be morally slapped in the face, is 
naturally very injurious to the feelings. Kdtty is disposed to 
forswear friendship forever, and to take a jaundiced view of 
human nature. Had the patient and sympathizing Sir Jo been 
with her, she would doubtless have poured her wrongs and re- 
sentment into his kindly ear; but the drive gives her leisure to 
cool dowm, and by the time she drives into the gates of her own 
park she has come to the conclusion that she will spare herself 
the mortification of confessing her failure. 

“ Because,” she argues to herself, “Jo might say, ‘ If you had 
asked my advice, I should have recemmended you not to inter- 
fere,’ and then I should be obliged to quarrel with him, and 
though I hate every one, I would rather not quarrel any more 
to-day, because it makes me feel bad afterward.” 

So the little diplomatist decks her face with smiles, answers 
all questions about her morning’s drive as gayly as though it had 
been crowned with perfect success, and deludes every on© as 
completely as she desires. 


MIGNON. 


m 

Ititty has a kind little heart, if her temper is warm; the sun 
mrely sets upon her wrath ; and before night she has forgiven 
Mignon's treatment of her (though she does not intend ever to 
to Bergholt again unless atonement is made for her late in- 
3 uries), and is casting about how to retard or stop the impending 
ruin of her willful friend’s life. 

Olga would be the person,” she says to herself; she has so 
much more tact and patience than I have. But then Mignon 
hates her so. Ah!” as a thought strikes her, “ but she might talk 
to Raymond; she has a great deal of influence over him. Let 
me see! I can’t very well go to her to-day or to-morrow, but I 
can write to her, and, happy thought, send the letter by Lord 
Threestars.” 

Lady Clover retires to her boudoir and indites a letter, long, and 
copiously underlined, to Mrs. Stratheden. This she incloses in 
two envelopes, in the outer one of which she slips a little note: 
“ Don’t read the inside letter until you are alone. Send a line or 
an empty envelope back by Lord T., that the poor man may not 
be put to the blush by knowing that I am only giving him this 
commission as an excuse for making him happy.” 

Oh, Lord Threestars!” cries Kitty, innocently putting her 
head into the smoking-room, “ I wonder whether you would do 
something for me ?” 

“You need not wonder,” he returns, gallantly; “you ought 
to be quite sure.” 

“I want most particularly to send something to Mrs. Strath- 
eden, and 1 7mist have an answer this evening. Would you mind 
riding over with it ?” 

“ I shall be delighted,” answers my lord, with alacrity. 

“ Oh, thanks! it is so good of you. Will you ring and say what 
horse you will ride? and I will just flnish my letter.” 

“ What a little darling she is,” soliloquizes Lord Threestars — 
“ worth fifty of her lovely friend at Bergholt.” 

It is not far from midnight when Olga has leisure to peruse 
Kitty’s letter. She, too, has been thinking much about the 
events of the previous evening, and is smitten with pity not 
only for Sir Tristram, but for his willful wife. With Raymond 
she is more than half-disposed to be angry. 

“ As if I or any one else could do anything!” she says, sorrow- 
fully, as she lays the letter down. “ Raymond has been spoiled 
all his life; now his desires have become necessities. His moral 
perceptions are blunted, and the only sense of honor he has 
would dictate him to fight the husband after ruining his happi- 
ness. I don’t, I cannot, think she is a woman to sacrifice her- 
self for love’s sake; but if she goes on as she began last night, 
she will almost as effectually ruin her position and imbitter her 
future. If Raymond would only go away! How dare men 
pretend to call such selfishness love!” murmured Olga, indig- 
nantly. 

In the end, she resolves to make the effort to influence Ray- 
mond for good. All her guests are to leave early on the morn- 
ing next but one, and she writes to ask him to come to her. And 
with the morning he comes. 


m 


MIGNOK 


“And so you are alone once more. Thank Heaven!” And, 
with a sigh of relief, he throws himself into one of the luxuri- 
ous chairs in the boudoir where he has been ushered. ‘ ‘ Wlia t 
a bore it is to have people in the house! — one can never call one's 
soul one’s own. That’s the one redeeming point of my mother's 
delicacy, as she calls it; w^e are not troubled by many visitors. 
Well,” for Olga is looking at him half indulgently, half sadly, 
“ what can I do for you? First of all, though, let me tell you 
what you must be heartily sick of hearing by now — the ball was 
the most perfect thing in the vmrld; no one but you could have 
done it in the country. And ” (his eyes kindling) “it was the 
very happiest night of my life.” 

“ Was it ?” asks Olga, quietly. “ It ought not to have been.” 

“ Why ?” asks Raymond. 

“ Because, my dear,” she returns, firmly, “ you were probably 
doing more harm than you ever did in your life before.” 

His handsome brows bend. 

“ Good Heaven!” he exclaims, petulantly. “ I trust you have 
not sent for me to read me a lecture.” 

“ No, not to lecture; that is too hard a word; not even to ad- 
vise; only to entreat you, for your own sake and for hers.” 

Raymond shakes his head impatiently. 

“ These things are not to be argued and reasoned about. 
Great love soars above cut-and-dried maxims and petty moral 
precepts.’^ 

“ Selfish love does; not great love. Those who think them- 
selves able to soar above the laws that honor and right have dic- 
tated must fall sooner or later. To love perfectly is to desire of 
all things the welfare of the beloved one — to be ready to sacrifice 
self for her sake. ’ 

Olga’s voice is low and pleading; she does not wish to irritate 
him. 

“ All that sounds very fine, and would read extremely well in 
print,” he retorts; “but what man who really loved ever put 
such theories into practice ?” 

“Many!” answers Olga, warmly; “only the world seldom 
hears of them; they don’t publish their devotion in the shame of 
the woman they profess to love.” 

“ Shame!” eclioes Raymond, hotly. “ That is a word coined 
by prudes and hypocrites; it does not apply in cases like these. 
A man meets, too late, the woman he feels God created for him; 
some flaw of fate has made her another's; he takes her and 
makes her honorably his so soon as the power is given him. 
Where is the shame ?” 

Olga could almost smile at this strange perversion of right, if 
she were not so grieved. To reason about right and wrong is 
waste of time, she feels; so she tries another tack. 

“ How can you reconcile it to your pride,'’ she says, “ that the 
woman you loved should in every way be the worse for you ?” 

“How the worse?” he cries, indignantly, starting up and 
pacing about the room : ‘ ‘ how the worse ? I am not as rich 
as Sir Tristram, but I am rich enough to gratify the whims 
uf a woman not too unreasonable. I certainly have no title, 


MIGNON. 


205 


but don’t you think that my love would compensate her for one 
or two paltry worldly advantages?” 

“Advantages, too, that would be of no use to her when she 
had placed herself out of the pale of society,” adds Olga, 
calmly. 

She has dealt a hard blow, but she meant it. He looks up at 
her with eyes flashing with wrath, 

“ So you too,” he cries, stung to the quick, “ are like the rest 
of your sex, delighted to trample upon another woman, particu- 
larly if she is beautiful ?” 

Olga looks up quietly at him. 

“ Raymond!” she says, simply; but it is enough, 

“ No, no!” he cries. “ Forgive me; I know you are not. But 
why did you say such a hard thing ?” 

“ Because I do not want, either for myself or the rest of my 
sex, to have the delight of trampling upon her. And, between 
ourselves, Raymond, don’t you think Lady Bergholt is a woman 
who particularly prizes social honors and distinction ? Don’t 
you think in your heart of hearts that, once the glamour of love 
is gone, she would sorely miss the things she sets such store by 
now ? Of course I have no means of knowing whether she cares 
for you: I can but be like the rest of the world, and judge by 
what I see. Now she is the lovely Lady Bergholt, courted, ad- 
mired, surrounded by all her heart can desire, shielded by a love 
that cannot, I think, be less than yours. If she leaves her hus- 
band for you, there must be a period during which she will be 
disgraced and compelled to hide from the world. When you 
had made her your wife, she would be pointed at, looked 
askance at, subject to a thousand humiliations; and if she at last 
lived it down, it could only be when the best years of her life 
were gone. For a very long time you would both be compelled 
to lead a life of great retirement and seclusion to ward off the 
penalties society inflicts on those who defy her laws. As yet 
you are comparatively children; you both love pleasure and ex- 
citement: life is now open at its fairest page for you, and with 
your own hand you want to blot out all its promises and to turn 
it to misery and disappointment,” 

“ It will only be open at its fairest page for me,” cries Ray- 
mond, “ when Mignon is mine. And in spite of all your re- 
marks, my dear, which I have read a thousand times in books, 
but which I admit gain immeasurably by your charming voice 
and eloquent eyes. I believe that our love would compensate us 
for all the arrows the world might, and no doubt would, launch 
at us.” 

Olga is forced to admit herself foiled in her second attack. 
She tries a third. 

“ And do you believe in your heart,” she said, looking at him 
steadily, “ that Lady Bergholt has any real feeling for you be- 
yond a momentary caprice, a willful, childish desire to set the 
proprieties at defiance and assert her own freedom and inde- 
pendence ?’' 

This is a bold stroke, and Olga is perfectly aware on what 
delicate ground she is treading; but she puts the question in a 


206 


MIGNOK 


natural voice, as though it were one of the simplest nature. 
And Raymond, taken unawares, answers her quite straightfor- 
wardly. 

** I do believe she cares for me. It is true she always tunas 
the subject, and pretends to laugh when I want her to be seri- 
ous; but that is her way. And, after all ’’“(with a shade of bitter- 
ness), “ who can understand a woman V— what man, at least 'i I 
suppose you see through each other, and that's w^hy you think so 
little of each other.’" 

Olga smiles. 

“I forgive you, my dear; when you are older you will know 
better. It is a trick of very young men, burdened with the 
weight of their vast experience, to sneer at and speak lightly of 
women, as the years go by, if they are worth anything, they 
learn to think differently. There must be something very wrong 
about the man who, after twenty or thirty years’ experience of 
women, has only evil to record of them.” 

“ I wish you would come down from that altitude of wisdom 
that your superior age gives you,” laughs Raymond. ^ 

“ It is such a very doubtful advantage that I am glad to make 
all I can of it,” answers Olga, in the same vein. 

But she is infinitely reassured in her mind. If Raymond has 
been unable to wun Lady Bergholt to a serious frame of mind, 
there is, she thinks, comparatively little harm done. She does 
not recur to the subject, and Raymond, glad to be let off so 
easily, does his best to make himself agreeable. After lunch, 
Olga rides back with him as far as the gates of L’ Estrange Hall, 
and they part the best of friends. 

Meantime, the subject of all this discussion is in a state of 
high dudgeon, and, short of running away with Raymond, she 
is ready to do anything to show her contempt and defiance of 
her officious advisers. Mr. Conyngham’s pungent remarks had 
made a decided impression upon her, and, but for Kitty’s un- 
fortunate visit, might have taken root and flowered into discre- 
tion; but innocent, well-meaning little Lady Clover had stirred 
up the seeds ot wrath and defiance in her heart, and entirely 
choked all that Fred had sown. My lady cast about her how best 
to outrage the proprieties and fling up her pretty heels in the face 
of “ that old cat,” Lady Blankshire. And, after considerable re- 
flection, a very pretty piece of mischief comes into her head. 
Fired by the success of Mrs. Stratheden’s fancy ball, she has de- 
termined to give one herself : and we may be sure that when 
she asks Sir Tristram’s consent with an excellent grace, being 
rather deferential on account of the largeness of her request, he 
accords it with but slight hesitation. The invitations are all 
issued wher. the brilliant inspiration that is to shock and defy 
the wdiole county comes into Mignon’s lovely head. When Sir 
Tristram looks over the list of the invited, among whom are in- 
cluded the Earl and Countess of Blankshire, he observes that the 
names of Sir Josias and Lady Clover are missing. 

“Why, my love,” he remarks, in surprise, “you have for- 
gotten the Clovers.” 

“ Oh, no,” replies Mignon. “ I do not intend to ask them.” 


MIONON, 


207 


Sir Tristram knits his brows, and says, with more firmness than 
is his custom when addressing his wife: 

I would rather not give the ball than that it should be a 
cause of affront to some of our most intimate friends.” 

“She insulted me,” cries Mignon, “and I will certainly not 
ask her.” 

“What did she do? what did she say?” asks Sir Tristram. 
“ If you will tell me the real state of affairs, it may lead me to 
think differently.” 

“ I tell you she insulted me,” answers Mignon, sulkily. “I 
think you might take my word for it, without asking any more 
questions.” 

“ But,” says Sir Tristram, smiling, “you fair ladies are apt to 
fall out about matters that our graver minds treat perhaps too 
lightly. Come, darling! what did she say? Did she tell you 
that your gown was unbecoming, or that you had a freckle on 
your nose ?” 

“You may laugh as much as you please!” replies Mignon, 
with dignity, “ but I tell you she insulted me, and that I won’t 
write the invitation.” 

“ Then I must,” says Sir Tristram, and accordingly does. 

But Kitty is by no means behind her late friend in spirit. Ob- 
serving that the card is filled up in Sir Tristram’s hand, she 
writes a curt little note, regretting that Sir Josias and she are 
unable to accept Lady Bergholt’s invitation. Excepting that 
Mignon would like Lady Clover to be witness of the act of defi- 
ance she intends to commit at the ball, she is not at all displeased. 
She considers herself a much greater personage than Kitty, and 
thinks the latter will be the sufferer by the mutual coldness. 

When the answers arrive, Mignon is disappointed to find that, 
in consequence of a visit to be paid in the south. Lady Blank- 
shire will not be present at her ball: but the refusals are very 
few, and she counts on a goodly gathering. To Fred’s surprise, 
she has insisted on his coming back for it after a visit further 
north; he is unsuspicious of any treachery lurking behind her 
civility, which has greatly increased since their conversation in 
the wood. 

“ She is afraid of me,” chuckles Fred, “Next to love, there 
is nothing it is so desirable to inspire as fear.” And he consents 
with quite a good grace, though balls are not in his line. 

More than once, Mignon has been asked what she intends to 
wear, but she only smiles, shakes her head, and says: “ You will 
see when the time conies.” Sir Tristram does not ask twice; he 
only imagines that she intends to charm every one by some 
pretty little caprice. So, when, on the evening of the ball, she 
appears simply but most becomingly dressed, as Marguerite, 
every one is surprised. 

“ Nothing could be nicer,” says Sir Tristram, with a fond smile; 
“ but, my dear, 1 think there was hardly any necessity for so 
much mystery.” 

Fred, who is gifted with a rapid intelligence, is seized by a 
horrible misgiving, which he tries to pooh-pooh. “ She would 
not dare!” he says, to himself; “ he could not do it.” 


208 


MIGNOK 


Most of the invited have arrived. Raymond is one of the few 
tardy guests. Fred, from some unaccountable instinct, has kept 
near his host and hostess, but for a moment has crossed the room 
to speak to Mrs. Stratheden. They are chatting together, when 
suddenly he catches sight of something that causes him to start 
and turn a shade paler. Olga follows the direction of his eyesf 

I was right. D n her!” mutters Fred, savagely, betwen his 

clinched teeth. Then his eyes meet Olga's, which wear a start- 
led look, “ Excuse me a moment,” he says, and follows F^y- 
niond, who is making his way to his host and hostess. He is 
dressed as Faust. This is the little surprise that Mignon has 
prepared with so much delight and secrecy for her friends. Ray- 
mond looks more than usually handsome; there is an unwonted 
color in his cheeks, and his eyes sparkle with uneasy fire. Fred, 
close upon his heels, scrutinizes narrowly the bearing of Sir 
Tristram and Lady Bergholt. He sees the former turn a shade 
paler, and his wife smile and blush; then he joins the group. 
On every side he sees curious, wondering looks; people are 
whispering together. At this moment he could without pity 
have seen Mignon burned at the stake. But Fred has tact, and 
he puts on his most jovial air. 

How are you, L’Estrange ? What a capital get-up! If I had 
only known, I would have come as Mephistopheles.” 

“ It would have become you admirably,” says Mignon. 

Fred is close beside her—Raymond has turned to speak to some 
one else — and he whispers in her ear: 

“ I would rather be your good angel and kick Faust out of the 
house.” 

Mignon colors, and Fred turns away with a smile, as if he had 
been saying the pleasantest thing in the world. 

Marguerite takes Faust’s arm and walks through all the rooms, 
leaning confidingly upon him and smiling up in his face. Ray- 
mond is not acting a part; the looks which he bends upon 
Mignon are the expression of his feelings, and out-Faust Faust. 
The more delicate-minded of the guests feel uncomfortable, the 
others laugh and shrug their shoulders. 

“ A pretty strong odor that!” remarks one man to another. 

“ Why does not Sir Tristram kick him out of the house? I 
would.” Thus the men. Then the women: “ Did you ever see 
anything so shameless? I shall, certainly never come here 
again.” 

“ There will be no one to call on., I should think,” is the signif- 
icant reply, unless you come to condole with Sir Tristram.” 

“ Poor man! Did you see how pale he turned? I pity him 
sincerely. She is good-looking, of course, but she must be a hor- 
rid woman.” 

Quite too horrid. I dare say she will be much more in her 
element when she has put herself beyond tlie pale of society.” 

Olga has followed Fred, and is talking gayly to Sir Tristram, 
though her heart is heavy within her. He does his best to sec- 
ond her efforts, but he is evidently distrait, and his face looks 
haggard. Presently he makes an excuse and leaves the ball- 


MIGNOK 20S 

room. Fred, who has been watching him, follows at a dis- 
tance. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“ Ever saying to himself, 

* Oh I that wasted time to tend upon her, 

To compass her with sweet observances, 

To dress her beautifully and keep her true!* 

And then he broke the sentence in his heart 

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 

May break it, when his passion masters him.’* 

Ihiid. 

Sir Tristram goes to his study, closing the door behind him. 
He feels as though a heavy blow had been dealt him. To be 
openly disgraced where he has given nothing but love and kind- 
ness — in his own house, too, before his own friends and serv- 
ants, to be made a butt for ridicule and contempt. 

“ It is my own fault!” he groans, putting his hand to his head. 
“ I should have stopped it before.” 

There is a sting keener even than the shame: he feels that to 
have done a thing like this in the face of the world, Mignon 
must love the man for whose sake she did it. An exceeding 
bitterness creeps into his heart, and he buries his face in his 
hands. The faint strains of the music, the sound of the voices 
and laughter, are borne toward him: in the midst of his pain, he 
remembers that he is host in a house full of guests, each one of 
whom has curious eyes to pry into his heart, and quick wit to 
notice if he suffers. ’ He has to be strong, and smile out the rest 
of this hateful night, to be mindful of every courtesy, every hos- 
pitality due to those around him. And he is to do this with a 
smiling face, whilst his heart aches as it has never ached before, 
except, perhaps, upon his marriage day. 

The door opens softly, and Fred comes in. He walks straight 
up to Sir Tristram, and lays a hand upon his shoulder. 

“ I won’t make any apology for intruding,” he says, in a low 
voice. “ It is the privilege of a friend to come in when others 
are shut out.” 

Sir Tristram looks at him, but makes no answer^ His face 
seems quite drawn and old. 

“ I don’t think this affair is much to be deplored,” Fred con- 
tinues, quietly: “ it gives you the very opportunity you have 
been wanting so long.” 

“ What opportunity,?” asks Sir Tristram, absently. 

Why, of turning that impertinent young scoundrel out of 
the house.” 

“Of course he shall never set foot here again,” answers Sir 
Tristram, wearily; “ but I can’t make an esclandre and turn him 
out of the house to-night. I can’t do that, if it is only for her 
sake.” 

“For her sake!” retorts Fred, savagely. “A good deal of 
consideration I would show her: she has been so thoughtful 
about you, hasn’t she ? However, for your own sake you won't 


MIGNOK 


SIO 


have any esclandre : it is simple enough to get him out without 
that. Send for him here, and request him to go: he cannot re- 
fuse.” 

“ If I send for him that will publish the whole thing at once.” 

“ Not in the least. I will mahe an excuse to get him here.” 

“So be it!” answers Sir Tristram; and Fred goes. He does 
not make straight for his goal, but stops to laugh and joke with 
various friends on the way: he seems in the most radiant of 
moods. Presently his keen eye lights on the couple he is in 
search of. Marguente is still leaning on Faust’s arm, but an- 
other partner is evidently claiming her reluctant hand. Ulti- 
mately she withdraws it from Faust, who looks darkly at his 
rival. 

“ L’Estrange, come and help me, like a good fellow!” says 
Fred, walking up with a beaming face. “ There is something 
wrong with some of my petticoats, and I can’t find a servant 
about.” 

Without being churlish, Raymond cannot well refuse: so he 
sulkily follows Fred, who throws gay words right and left as 
they pass through the crowd. When they have traversed the 
corridor that leads to Sir Tristram’s study, and are quite alone, 
Fred turns, and, in a harsh, curt voice, and with an expression 
of face strikingly unlike the one he wore a minute ago, says, 
pointing to the door: 

“ Sir Tristram is waiting for you there.” 

Then he finds a servant, and orders Mr. L’Estrange’s carriage. 

Raymond is no coward, but his heart gives a very decided 
throb as he finds himself on the eve of a scene that under no cir- 
cumstances can be a pleasant one. It is a horrid sensation to 
feel oneself thoroughly in the wrong. Somehow, it has not oc- 
curred to him to think of Sir Tristram interfering; he has borne 
so much that the idea of his turning now has seemed improba- 
ble. Of course, he would not like it; but what cared Raymond 
for that ? He was perfectly aware that by yielding to Mignon’s 
wish he was compromising her to the last degree; but it served 
his selfish purpose to do that. He acquitted himself of all dis- 
honor and meanness by telling himself that he meant to marry 
her. 

As his hand is on the door, he feels that matters have come to 
a crisis. In another moment the two men are face to face. Sir 
Tristram is no longer doubtful or vacillating; his face wears an 
expression of stern determination; he looks a study for Velas- 
quez in his rich, dark dress. The scene altogether would make 
an admirable painting — Raymond’s handsome face set off by his 
gay dress, his figure clearly defined against the somber, dimly- 
lighted background. 

“ You wished to see me ?” he asks, in a voice he cannot quite 
command. To conceal its tremulousness he is forced to make it 
defiant. 

“ I did,” Sir Tristram answers. “ I have a question to ask of 
you.” 

“ Pray ask it,” returns Raymond, with a veiled sneer. 

“ Did you know,” Sir Tristram asks, in a cold, calm voice, 


m&NOK 211 

** that Lady Bergholt was to wear the dress of Marguerite to- 
night?” 

Raymond hesitates. He has no thought of telling a lie» 
but the question embarrasses him. His eyes turn away from 
his host’s, and travel slowly round the room. He is, perhaps, 
looking for inspiration; but none comes, and he is forced to an- 
swer: 

“ Yes, I did.” 

** Then,” says Sir Tristram, his voice trembling a little from 
the pain and anger that gnaw at his heart, ‘‘ then, as you have 
perpetrated a gross and deliberate insult upon me, and have 
wantonly compromised Lady Bergholt by your indiscretion, you 
will perfectly understand me when I request you to leave my 
house and never to enter it again.” 

Raymond is not prepared for this. To be turned out of the 
house like a beaten hound, to have the tables turned upon him- 
self, the laugh against himself. Sir Tristram victor instead of 
vanquished! His eyes flash with angry Are. 

“ I assumed the dress by Lady Bergholt’s express desire,” he 
says. “ It was entirely and solely her idea.” 

He is glad to wound the man who is humiliating him. 

“ Perhaps,” Sir Tristram answers, quietly. “ I have no more 
to say. Since I have expressed my wish to be free from your 
presence, 1 presume you are gentleman enough to take the "hint 
and go.” 

“What!” cries Raymond, furiously. “Do you think T will 
submit to be kicked out of the house like a dog before the whole 
country ? If you are mean enough to violate every law of hospi- 
tality, do not think I will tamely brook so public an insult. If 
I go, I go on the understanding that you give me full and ample 
satisfaction for the affront. Y^ou understand me, Sir Tris- 
tram ?” 

“ Yes,” Sir Tristram answers, gravely, “ I understand you 
perfectly. But I have a word to say to you before you go, Ray- 
mond. I have known you since you were a baby, I have nursed 
you upon my knee, and all through your boyhood I have looked 
upon you almost as a eon. This house has been open to you as 
though it had been your home. Have you ever had anything 
from me but kindness? I never asked nor wanted anything 
from you in return, but I surely might have expected that you 
would not basely creep to my hearth to steal from me the thing 
that is dearest to me in life; I might have expected that you 
would refrain from trying to dishonor me, to cover me with 
the world’s contempt and ridicule. On whose side is the repa- 
ration owing? Satisfaction! by that you mean, I presume, 
standing up at twelve paces to shoot at each other. There would 
be no satisfaction to me in having your blood upon my head, 
and my wife’s name blazoned with infamy to the world. I 
think you know me too well to suspect me of cowardice. Return 
to the ballroom if you please, make what excuse you choose, 
but, if you are a gentleman, in half an hour from this time I 
expect you to leave this house, and not to re-enter it until I a^k 
you to do so,” 


212 


MIGNOK 


There is a door leading from the study to his dressing-room, 
and, without another word, he opens it and goes, leaving Ray- 
mond half mad with wrath and shame. Left to himself, the 
latter stands biting his nails, and muttering furious impreca- 
tions. He w^ould like to have some vent for his fury, to make 
a ruin and havoc about him, or to burst into violent rage of 
words against some one or something. He feels he cannot 
command his face sufficiently to appear in the ballroom again. 
He wants to get away quietly, without being seen. As he 
stands irresolute, the door is pushed open, and Mr. Conyngham 
comes in. 

“ Your carriage is at the door,” he says, quietly. 

For a moment Raymond looks as if he would spring at Fred's 
throat; then, with a tremendous effort, he controls himself, and 
says, with a sneer: 

“ Thanks for your good offices. I shall not forget them. Will 
you say au revoir to Lady Bergholt for me ?” 

“ I will make your adieus to her,” answers Fred. 

Raymond dashes through the hall to his carriage. Fortu- 
nately, he meets no one whom he knows on the way. 

“ Home, and drive like !” he cries to his astonished 

servant. 

He has only one thought in his heart — revenge! 

“ She shall be mine now, if I die for her!” he says, over and 
over again, between his clinched teeth. 

He forgets, ignores, that he has been wrong from first to last, 
that he has been treated with a gentleness, a forbearance, al- 
most more than human; he is burning with the rage of wounded 
vanity, and he hates Sir Tristram as only the wronger can hate 
the wronged. 

Fred, having seen the last of the discomfited Faust, returns to 
seek his friend. 

“Is he gone?” the latter asks. 

“ Yes, thank God! and not a soul the wiser except Hoskyns. 
Now, Tristram, there is still something left for you to do; the 
happiness of your whole future may depend on it.” 

* ‘ What is that ?” asks Sir Tristram. 

“You must take a high hand with your wife about this affair. 
Unless I am very much mistaken, she will treat you to a pretty 
scene about it; but you must nip her in the bud. Tell her that, 
in consequence of her folly, she has made herself and you the 
talk of the county; threaten to take her abroad, or to send her 
home to her parents; in short, you must frighten her. If you 
don’t, by this time to-morrow, mark my words, you will have 
sent L’ Estrange a humble apology, and he will be here more 
than ever.” 

“Ido not think that,” answers Sir Tristram, with a faint 
smile. “Now (looking at the clock) “ I must go and act out 
this dreary play. It is nearly three-quarters of an hour since I 
left the ballroom.” 

“ All right,” says Fred, grasping his hand. “ Look as bright 
as you can. Anyhow, you have got the best of it this time.” 

And so Sir Tristram goes and plays his part for three long, 


MIGNON. 


m 


weary hours. He has a smile and a courteous word for all, he 
forgets nothing that hospitality and good-breeding dictate, and 
people, having got over their first little shock of surprise, affect 
to ignore what has happened, and enjoy themselves amazingly. 
It is not long before Raymond’s absence and Lady Bergholt’s 
vexation are observed, and the correct conclusion arrived at, 
that Raymond has been kicked out, and that it serves him per- 
fecly right. 

Fred treats himself to a little piece of revenge. He approaches 
Mignon, whose eyes are seeking Raymond in every direction, 
and says, in a voice perfectly audible to those around: 

“ I am charged to make you L’Estrange’s adieus.” 

'' Is he gone ?” asks Mignon, horribly mortified to find herself 
blushing crimson. 

“ Yes,” returns Fi*ed, with his false air of bonhomie: “those 
good-looking young fellows are always so sensitive about their 
appearance. He was dissatisfied with his dress— thought it didn’t 
suit him, and that he made rather a fool of himself by wearing 
it; so he is off. I have just seen the last of him.” 

Mignon knows not what to say. She is confounded. Oh, if 
she could kill Fred with the lightnings from her eyes! She turns 
away, and says, rather ungraciously, to the man beside her: 

“ As Mr, L’ Estrange is gone, I can give you his waltz.” 

My lady is not an adept at dissembling, especially her 
anger, and, in consequence, rather overacts her part, and seems 
too pleased, too eagerly delightful, too unnaturally gracious to 
her guests, for the remainder of the evening. She is burning to 
get Sir Tristram alone, to pour out the vials of her wrath upon 
him, to heap him with every cruel taunt that her ingenious 
mind can frame; for she surmises well enough that he, aided 
and abetted by Pk*ed, is the cause of Raymond’s sudden depart- 
ure. As she well deserves, this night, instead of being a tri- 
umph, is one of bitter mortification. It is almost, if not quite, 
the most miserable one of her life. 

At last, at last, the final adieus are made, the final compli- 
ments paid and graciously received, and Mignon mounts with 
hasty steps to her room. So hot and eager is her wrath, she will 
not wait for her maid to unplait her long hair. As soon as her 
dress is unfastened, she dismisses her, and, throwing a morning 
wrapper round her, goes swiftly toward Sir Tristram’s room. 
Her cheeks burn, her hands are icy cold, there is a hard glitter 
in her deep eyes; a woful time seems in store for the hapless 
husband at the hands of this lovely vixen. She knows not how 
to commence: there seem no words bitter enough for her anger. 

Sir Tristram is expecting her. He still wears his Velasquez 
dress, and is leaning against the chimney-piece waiting for her. 
He wants to spare her; in spite of his just anger, he cannot 
shake off the yearning tenderness that, for the punishment of 
his sins, he still feels for her. 

My lady enters rapidly, and shuts the door behind her with a 
portentous bang. 

“ I have come for an explanation,” she cries. “ What do you 
mean by disgracing me before every one ? What do you mean 


m MIGNON, 

by insulting the best, the only friend I have in the world ? How 
dare you 

“ Stop!” thunders Sir Ti'istram. 

Surely he is the most long-suffering and patient of men, but 
he is human, and has the passions that animate the breasts 
of other men. He meant to be gentle with her, but, fortunately 
for himself, she has provoked him beyond endurance. Her furi- 
ous looks, her insolent werds, are not to be brooked. 

I have forbidden L’Estrange the house: he never sets foot in 
it again whilst I am master here. If you are so shameless, if you 
have no heed of your own reputation, I shall take care you do 
not disgrace me, I am not quite the dupe and the fool that my 
mistaken tenderness for you has made me seem. Now ” (point- 
ing to the door) “go, and, for your own sake, if you are wise, 
never again refer to the events of to-night. It will be diflScult 
enough for me, as it is, to forget them.” 

Mignon is completely cowed, as a bully always is when he has 
aroused the wrath of a generous nature: she bursts into tears 
and creeps quietly back to her room, and there, at the risk of 
spoiling her fine eyes, she cries and sobs until, wearied out at 
last, she falls asleep, dressed as she is, like an angry child. 

For the next few days she is rather in awe of her liusband, 
and behaves better than usual. He is exceedingly kind to her, 
and, contrary to his custom of late, goes out riding and driving 
with her, now their guests have left; but there is something in 
his manner that makes her feel he does not mean to be trifled 
with. More than once they have seen Raymond in the distance: 
it is evident that he w^ants to waylay Mignon, but on seeing her 
companion he has always avoided them. At first my lady is 
maliciously amused at his discomfiture, but after a little while 
she begins to resent Sir Tristram’s espionage, and declines either 
to drive or ride, but escapes from the house when his back is 
turned, and takes long, solitary walks. 

The old harassed look comes back to Sir Tristram's face; the 
lines deepen round his eyes. Where are the rejuvenating influ- 
ences he had pictured to himself, in his folly, that marriage with 
a young and lovely woman would exercise upon him ? 

“ What is to be the end of if? what is to be the end of it?” 
that is the thought that haunts him day and night now. “ She 
never loved me, and now^ she is learning to hate me for a spy 
and a tyrant.” 

Fortunately, a diversion occurs in the shape of an invitation 
from a neighboring magnate to Sir Tristram and Lady Bergholt 
for a week’s visit. The house has the credit of being an excep- 
tionally pleasant one to stay at; it is a house, too, where the laay 
guests affect much magnificence and variety of plumage, and 
Mignon is at once immersed in the consideration how she shall 
equal, if not exceed, the splendor of all the other women. 

On the day of leaving Bergholt, just as she is putting on her 
hat to start, her abigail demurely presents her with a letter. 

“ Oh, if you please, my lady, as Thomas was out exercising 
this morning, he met Mr. L’Estrange, who said he was to give 
this to me to give to you,” 


MIQNON, 


«16 


Mignon colors ever so little, and thrusts the letter into her 
pocket. 

“If you please, my lady,” says the maid, dropping her 
eyes discreetly, “shall I give any answer to Thomas for Mr. 
L’Estrange ?” 

“ No,” answers my lady, sharply. 

It so happens that, in the excitement consequent upon this 
visit, Mignon entirely forgets the letter for two or three days, 
when one morning, happening to wear the same dress, she takes 
it out of her pocket by accident. 

I will not shock the reader by a transcription of Raymond’s 
letter, which, as may be supposed, was one that no man could be 
justified in writing to a married woman. 

Mignon reads it, laughs, and throws it into the fire. She had 
almost forgotten his very existence. My lady is enjoying her- 
self thoroughly, and has two or three fresh and devoted ad- 
mirers. 

People remark that Sir Tristram is a most complaisant and in- 
dulgent husband; it is strange that, with such a young and 
lovely wife, he should not seem in the least jealous of her. Poor 
man! they little dream what an utter relief it is to him to see 
her appearing to take pleasure in the society of any man who is 
not Raymond. 

This may be considered by some a very negative state of con- 
jugal bliss; but it is sometimes the only kind that falls to the lot 
of a doting husband or wife. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


‘‘ And though she saw all heaven in flower above, 
She would not love.” 


Sivinburne. 


After this visit, which Mignon enjoys immensely, she finds 
Bergholt grievously dull. To make matters worse, a heavy rain 
sets in, and lasts for three days. My lady, who has no resources 
in herself, is at her wits’ end how to kill time. She wishes now 
she had not quarreled with Kitty, for then she would have gone 
to Elmor to spend some of the weary hours that oppress her so 
dismally. Her thought? revert to Raymond, and she begins to 
feel a renewal of anger against her husband for what she con- 
siders his tyranny. Certainly, in spite of Raymond’s occasional 
fits of temper, it had been very pleasant having him to flatter 
and make love to her, and teasing him was a most agreeable 
pastime. She begins to feel quite fond of him, and has serious 
thoughts of writing an answer to his long- neglected effusion. 
Matters stand thus when Sir Tristram is summoned to London 
on business. 

“ Would you like to go to the Warren for two or three days ?” 
he asks his wife. “Or you might stay in town, and have one of 
your sisters with you.” 

“ No, thanks,” returns Mignon, imagining Sir Tristram makes 
this proposal because he is afraid to leave her, and determined 
to balk him. 


216 


MIGNON. 


“ Will you telegraph for Mary or Regina to come here, then, 
darling? I fear, my darling, you will be very dull all alone.” 

“ Not duller than I am now,” Mignon j’eplies. 

Sir Tristram winces, but says no more. 

“ If the weather clears, as I should think it must soon,” re- 
marks my lady, “ I shall drive about and call on some of the 
people.” 

Do!” answers her husband, cordially. “ There is a fresh box 
of books, too. I don’t know whether you will care for any of 
them.” 

“I don’t suppose so.- I don’t care for any but Miss Brougii- 
ton’s.” 

Sir Tristram is to be away four days, including those of his 
departure and return. My lady has determined on a bold scheme. 
She will see Raymond in spite of her husband’s prohibition. He 
can but be angry if he finds her out. 

“ There is no crime in my seeing him; and I shall if I like!” 
argues the willful fair one. So, the day previous to Sir Tris- 
tram’s departure, she indites a line to Mr. L’Estrange, telling 
him that, if he particularly wishes to see her, he may do so the 
next morning about eleven in the little summer-house at the end 
of the wood. In spite of the pouring rain, she drives into the 
town, and posts the letter with her own hands. 

Sir Tristram’s train leaves at ten, and, when he has started, 
Mignon dons her hat and saunters about the gardens for some 
time in view of the house. The weather has cleared at last, and 
the morning is bright. But everything is unpleasantly wet 
after the heavy autumn rains, every bough and twig glistens with 
drops, the paths are moist and sodden, and altogether it is a great 
deal pleasanter overhead than under foot. 

Mignon, having promenaded for some time in view of the 
windows to avert suspicion should any one be watching her,, 
strikes presently into a path that leads to the kitchen-garden 
and out of it again by a roundabout way to the wood. Long be- 
fore she comes to the place of rendezvous, she sees Raymond 
watching for her. He comes eagerly toward her, catches both 
her hands in one of his, and with the other makes as though to 
draw her to him, but Mignon eludes his gi'asp, and says, with a 
little nervous laugh: 

“ I have no doubt you are very glad to see me; but you need 
not be quite so demonstrative.” 

Raymond is too happy at seeing her to quarrel with her, but 
he feels chilled by her reception. When absent from her, he 
has always taken it for granted that she cares almost as much 
for him as he does for her. 

“ And are you not glad to see me?” he asks, looking at her as 
though after his long abstinence from she sight of her lovely 
face, he could never look enough. 

Of coarse I am. If I had not wanted to see you, I should 
not have written to you and taken the trouble to go out in the 
wet to post the letter myself.” 

“Where is he asks Raymond, curtly. 


MIGNOK 


217 


He 9 Oh, he is gone to London, and won’t be back until 
Saturday.” 

“ And he left you here alone ? Was he not afraid that I should 
come and carry you off before he came back ?” 

“ Apparently not,” laughs Mignon. “ Have you nearly done 
staring at me ?” 

“No, that I have not,” he answers, impressively. “And if 
you knew how I have longed and hungered for the sight of you, 
you would not ask. You are more lovely than ever.” 

“I cannot return the compliment. What have you been 
doing to yourself ? You look quite pinched and old and yellow.” 

“ What have I been doing ? I have been eating my heart out. 
I have been going through the torments of the lost every day and 
every hour since I saw you.” 

“ How silly!” says Mignon. “ As if any one was worth doing 
that for!” 

“ It is easy to see that you have not suffered in that way,” re- 
marks Raymond, bitterly. 

“ No, indeed,” answers Mignon, frankly.' “ I have found 
something better to eat than my own heart; and I can always 
sleep, thank goodness.” 

“Why did you not answer my letter? Would you not, or 
could you not ?” 

“ Well, to tell you the truth,” replies Mignon, with that utter 
disregard of people’s feelings that she has almost brought to a 
science, “ I put the letter in my pocket, and forgot it, and then, 

when we were at the s’, I never had a moment to spare to 

answer it.” 

Raymond looks at her. The expression of his face is hardly 
lover-like. 

“ Is this a little piece of acting ?” he says; “ or am I the most 
infernal fool and dupe that breathes the breath of life ?” 

“ Don’t be cross,” urges Mignon, persuasively. 

“ Cross!” he repeats, laying an accent of withering scorn on 
the word. “ When are we going to understand each other? 
When will you be woman enough to lay aside your tricks and 
jests and show that you care for me? — if 3 ^ou do,” he adds, after 
a pause, looking intently at her. 

“ See what we got by my showing that I cared for you!” pouts 
Mignon. “ You are forbidden the house, and I have to come 
out and meet you here at the risk of I don’t know what if I am 
found out.” 

“ Do you mean to say that he dares treat you unkindly ?” cries 
Raymond, hotly. 

“ Of course he does,” answers Mignon, assuming a martyrized 
air. “ I should like you to have seen him that night of the ball 
when every one was gone.” 

“Then, dearest,” cries the young man, passionately, catching 
at her hands, “ won’t you give me the right to protect you from 
his violence ? won’t you trust me to make the future happy for 
you— to atone to you for all the misery of the past?” 

Mignon has a keen sense of the ridiculous; she cannot help 
being very forcibl}' struck by the ludicrousness of the idea of 


MlGNOm 


?18 

Raymond protecting her from her husband^s violence. She is 
very near bursting into a fit of laughter, but is afraid of offend- 
ing Raymond irretrievably. But for his extreme vanity it would 
be almost impossible to conceive how he can entertain the delu- 
sion that Mignon really cares for or would sacrifice anything to 
him. The practical evidences of her indifference, of which she 
has been so unsparing, have all been atoned for by occasional 
fits of kindness, and by her flattering treatment of him in public 
regardless of the world’s criticisms. He does not for a moment 
realize that her behavior has been the result of sheer willfulness 
and inexperience; he chooses to imagine her as learned in the 
world’s ways as himself, and to argue that she must have counted 
the cost before compromising herself with society. If, too, he 
had not cast a willful glamour before his eyes, Raymond, from 
his intimate knowledge of Sir Tristram, could hardly have failed 
to recognize the absurdity of supposing him capable of treating 
any woman, far less the one he idolized, with cruelty or violence. 
But his own uncurbed, unbridled passions have made him ignore 
or doubt generosity and power of self-control in others. As for 
Mignon, she no more considers the risk she incurs by playing with 
Are, than a person might do who amused himself with a box of 
lucifer matches over a tub of cold water, into which he might 
throw them at any moment. And here, though I take no pains 
to screen her heartlessness and utter inconsiderateness, I must 
exonerate Mignon from the consciousness of grave impropriety. 
She is very young and really very innocent, or I might express 
myself better by the word ignorant; she has not, never has had, 
the least intention of allowing Raymond to make love to her 
more than by admiring words; she would as soon think of throw- 
ing herself into the lake as of running away with him ; but she 
likes the spice of romance that his devotion to her casts over a 
life which threatens to become monotonous. 

So, in answer to his impassioned words, she says, repossessing 
herself quietly of her hands; 

“ Oh, he is not really so very terrible, and I am not at all afraid 
of him.” 

“But even then,” utters Raymond, in a disappointed voice, 
“is your life worth having as it is? Can you go on wasting 
your best years without love or sympathy, without hope or 
change from the dreary routine of days spent with a man to 
whom you are hopelessly indifferent ?” 

“ Oh, I might be worse off,” remarks Mignon, philosophic- 
ally. 

“ Your ideas seem rather of a negative shade,” says Ray- 
mond, bitterly. “ You can live without happiness, perhaps?” 

“ I am happy enough sometimes,” she answers. “ At all 
events, I am never zmhappy, only bored sometimes. And last 
week at the s’ I was tremendously happy.” 

A feeling of impotent wrath comes over Raymond, 

“ Why did you send for me?” he S8.ys, roughly. “ You mean 
nothing; you are only playing the fool with me. I wish to God 
1 had gone a hundred miles in the other direction!” 

They are in the summer-house now. Mignon has throwii off 


MiGNoisr. m 

her hat, and the sunbeams are playing hide-and-seek in her hair 
through the narrow windows. 

He looks with envious discontent at her beauty; his moods are 
always somewhat akin to those of the savage, who divides his 
time between cursing and adoring his divinity. 

“ I wonder,’’ says Mignon, rehectively, looJting with perfect 
calmness at the anger in hi's liandsome face — “ I wonder if you 
could be with me ten minutes without quarreling ? Why can’t 
you be reasonable V” 

“ ReasonabJe!” he echoes, contemptuously. I wish” (with 
angry earnestness) “you could change places with me for ten 
short minutes, and then perhaps you would not ask that ques- 
tion.” 

“Thanks. I would rather be myself. It must be very dis- 
agreable to have a raging volcano in one’s inside that is always 
going off like fireworks when one least expects them. Good 
heavens!” (in accent of lively agitation), “ here comes one of the 
keepers. What shall we do 

“ Do!” says Raymond, in a low, energetic voice, as he jumps 
up, blushing violently. “Why, sit still and keep quiet, of 
course! Go on talking naturally. We have often been here be- 
fore. I don’t suppose” (with a sneer) “that Sir Tristram has 
offered a reward for my head if I am caught on the premises.” 

“ I wish I had not come,” utters Mignon, crossly. 

“ I thought you were brave,” remarks Raymond; but I sup- 
pose you are so cowed by this time that the merest trifle 
daunts your courage.” 

“Stuff!” says Mignon, sharply. “Tdon’t care a bit for any 
one; but I hate to feel as if I had been caught doing something 
I ought not. And of course he knows all about it; trust serv- 
ants for that! I shouldn’t wonder if some of them sent him here 
to spy. If I thought so” (vindictively), “ I would turn them all 
off at a moment’s notice!” And my lady looks quite capable of 
it. “I tell you what,” she adds, after a pause; “ ride boldly up 
to the house to-morrow, and ask for me as you used to do.” 

But Raymond’s pride forbids him to place himself in so false a . 
position. Mignon is too perturbed for him to get any serious 
talk out of her to-day; so, after a time, this eminently unsatis- 
factory interview (for him) is brought to a close, and, as she de- 
clines to meet him in the sarne place again, it is arranged that he 
shall join her in her ride tlie following afternoon. So Mignon 
takes a smiling leave of him, but he goes moody and frowning 
homeward. 

An uncomfortable doubt has begun to take possession of his 
mind— not whether the game is worth the canede, but whether 
the candle will ever see the game played out. lie had expected 
to find her softened, more tender, Jess brusque and w*Uful, but 
she is the same Mignon as ever;^ she even seems to have slipped 
further, from his grasp. 

The next day, however, my lady is all smiles and pleasant 
words. She feels a good deal more secure on horseback with 
her servant in attendance than she did in the wood, and indulges 


m 


MIGNON. 


herselt in a thorough flirtation, fearless of Raymond taking any 
undue advantage of her complaisance. 

The morning after, she receives a letter from her husband: 

“ My Darling,—! arrived here last night— I cannot say, with 
perfect truth, in safety, for in jumping from the carriage, most 
foolishly before it had quite stopped,.! slipped and spramed my 
ankle. However, don’t be the least alarmed, the accident is not 
at all serious, though a little painful, and the most inconvenient 
part of it is that it will detain me here longer than ! intended. 
Now, don’t you think, dearest, that a week’s solitude will bore 
you a good deal ? I know your gregarious nature. ! do not for 
an instant want you to come up on my account, or unless it 
would really amuse you; but the moment you feel dull, tele- 
graph, and I will secure comfortable rooms for you and send for 
one of your sisters. You might like to do some shopping and go 
to the theaters. ! only propose this for your sake; don’t dream 

of coming for mine. P is attending me, and Fred is here. 

With best love, my darling, 

“ Your most affectionate husband, 

“ Tristram Bergholt.” 

To do Mignon justice, she is exceedingly sorry about Sir 
Tristram’s accident; she has even a momentary thought of going 
to London to nurse him; but, after mature deliberation, she 
comes to the conclusion that as his hurt is not serious, and she is 
really likely to be better amused at home, she will not go, at all 
events not at present. She is seized with a brilliant idea, upon 
which she acts when she meets Raymond the same afternoon. 

“Does your mother know anything about your quarrel with 
Sir Tristram ?” she asks. 

“ Not a syllable. I should never have heard the last of it. 
Why?” 

“ Because ! have been thinking,” proceeds Mignon, gayly, 
“ that though you are forbidden my house, I am not forbidden 
yours, and as I am quite alone ” (laughing) “ your mother might 
think it only kind and neighborly to ask me over to spend the 
day.” 

Baymond’s face lights up with pleasure. 

“ By Jove! what a fool ! was not to think of it myself! When 
will you come — to-morrow? She will be only too delighted.” 

“ Perhaps I ought to wait for an invitation,” suggests Mignon. 

“ 1 will ride over and bring it the first thing to-morrow morn- 
ing,” cries Raymond, eagerly. 

“ You forget,” says Mignon, maliciously, “ that you are for- 
bidden the house.” 

He frowns. 

Iliad forgotten it; thanks for reminding me, ! will send a 
servant.” 

“All right; do!” answers Mignon. “No one can make any 
remark as long as ! am with your mother.” 

“Are you beginning to be afraid of what people say ?” asks 
Raymond. 

“No, not afraid. But J would just as soon not give them a 


MIGNOK 




chance. And I will tell you how you shall amuse me. I 
want to learn to jump. You must teach me. Have a bar or 
or hurdles put up in a field, and put me on one of your hunters. 
I mean to hunt this winter though Tristram shakes his head, 
and next year,” she adds triumphantly, “ I mean to cut out 
Kitty and Mrs. Stratheden in the Row.” 

The following morning, a servant brings a kind little note 
from Mrs. L’Estrange begging Lady Bergholt to come over and 
spend a long day with her, and apologizing for her long neglect. 
Mignon is bent -on ingratiating herself with, Raymond’s mother, 
and behaves with unusual gentleness and discretion. 

She expatiates much on her dullness at Bergholt now her hus- 
band is away, and kind Mrs L’Estrange presses her warmly to 
repeat her visit whenever she feels inclined. 

Raymond excels as a host: nothing can be more charming 
than his solicitude for the bien-etre of his fair guest. Mignon 
feels that she has never liked him so much before. The leaping 
lessons are a great succes: Lady Bergholt has an excellent seat, 
and is perfectly fearless. The jumping practice is continued in 
their rides on the days which Mignon does not spend at the Hall. 
On the whole she thoroughly enjoys her husband’s absence, 
though there is a reverse to this as to most pictures. One day 
she drives to call upon Lady Blankshire, and is received with 
freezing politeness; another day, when riding with Raymond, 
she meets the barouche of another magnate, who makes but the 
slightest return to her somewhat effusive greeting; on another 
occasion she passes Kitty, who turns her head in the opposite 
directioji. Mj^ lady’s vanity is wounded, but she still thinks her- 
self strong enough to defy public opinion. 

“ This is all on your account, I suppose!” she says to Raymond, 
with an angry sparkle in her blue eyes. 

“ My darling,” he replies tenderly, “ it hurts me awfully to 
think you should have to bear anything for my sake.” 

“ I am not your darling,” she retorts; “ and if I find I cannot 
hold my own, I shall appease society by cutting you.” 

For a wonder, Raymond does not make an angry answer. He 
has been strangely patient of late: either he is tired of endeavor- 
ing to file down the rough edges of her temper, or he is tr3ring 
fresh tactics. 

It is three weeks before Sir Tristram is able to return to Berg- 
holt, and when he comes he looks very thin and pulled-down, 
Mignon has a slight qualm of remorse. 

“You have been worse than you told me,” she says, kissing 
him quite affectionately. “ Why did you not send for me to 
nurse you ?” 

“ I don’t think nursing is your vocation, my darling,” he an- 
swers, drawing her on his knee, a familiarity which she, for a 
wonder, permitted. He looks at her with fixed eyes: if possible, 
he feels he loves her more devotedly than before. 

“You are lovelier than ever,” he cannot resist saying. 

“Suppose, now,” she says, turning suddenly serious, and 
thinking of words once spoken by Raymond, “that I were 


222 MIONON. 

smashed in a train, or had the smallpox, would you still be an 
fond of me ?” 

He puts his hand before her mouth. 

“ Hush!” he says. “ Don’t speak of such a thing.” 

“ But should you?” she persists. 

‘‘ Yes,” he answers, “ I hope so; I think so. By the way, have 
you heard tliat your people are talking of a trip to Italy this 
winter ?” 

“ Regina wrote something about it. Are they really serious?” 

“Yes; I believe they start in a fortnight. Mary came up to 
see me nearly every day; you cannot think how good she was. I 
don’t know what I should have done without her.” 

“ Ah,” laughs Mignon. “ Y"ou ought to have married her, as I 
told you.” 

“ Ought I?” he answers, tenderly. “ I don't think so.” 

“ Tristram,” says my lady, suddenly, “ I have something to tell 
you. Will you promise me not to be angry ?” 

A misgiving that has tormented him these three weeks grows 
in breadth and depth. 

“What is it?” he asks, with involuntary coldness. 

“I don’t think I shall tell you,” she says, laying her blonde 
head against his dark one. “ I don’t like the tone of your voice.” 

There is a pause. 

“ There is only one thing you could do that would vex me very 
much,” utters Sir Tristram, in a voice lie cannot quite command; 
and I hardly think you would willingly give me so much pain.” 

“And what is that?” she asks, half coaxing, lialf defiant. 

“To have had L’Estrange here, or to have met him else- 
where.” 

“ Of course I have not had him here. As if I should, after all 
the fuss you made!” 

Sir Tristram experiences a sense of relief. 

“ But,” says Mignon, and the misgiving returns. 

“ But what, my dear?” 

“But I had a note, a most kind note, from Mrs. L’Estrange, 
asking me to spend the day; and I thought you did not want her 
to know there had been anything disagreeable, so I went.” 

There is silence. Presently Sir Tristram says, in a voice the 
calmness of which is hardly natural: 

“ Did you go only once, or more than once ?” 

“ I went twice,” answers Mignon, afraid to reveal that she has 
been double that number of times. 

“ And,” continues her husband, still in the same tone, “ did 
you see— Raymond —upon any other occasion?” 

“ I met him out riding.” 

“ More than once ?” 

“ Oh, really, I am not going to be cross-questioned as if I were 
in a witness-box,” cries Mignon, pettishly, jumping up. “ I met 
him — that is enough; and I was an idiot to tell you. It is much 
better to be sly than straightforward. I shall act upon that next 
time. And if you only married me for the pleasure of bullying 
and tyrannizing over me,” adds my lady, with a voice "ever 
crescendo, “1 wish 1 had never seen you! It was all papa’s 


MIONOK 


228 


doing, and it was a great shame of you both.’* And Mignon, 
having sent the i^oisoned shaft well home, takes flight, and leaves 
the man who loves her in speechless pain. 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

Bnt there, where I had garnered up my heart. 

Where either I must live or bear no life; 

The fountain from the which my current runs, 

Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!’^ 

Othello. 

Sir Tristram’s ankle is a long time getting well. It is a con- 
siderable trial to him to forego hunting, to which, after several 
winters spent out of England, he has looked forward keenly. 
Mignon has been extremely anxious to ride to the meets, but her 
husband has always refused his consent. 

“ I will drive there with you as often as you like,” he says, 

but I cannot ride, and I do not think it would look well for 
you to be seen there with only your groom.” 

Mignon is exceedingly put out about this new piece of tyranny, 
as she considers it, and, as she cannot go as she likes, pettishly 
refuses to go at all. 

December has come. They liave had a party in the house for 
pheasant-shooting, and paid a couple of visits. Gerry has spent 
a few days with them; the rest of the Carlyle family are winter- 
ing abroad. 

Mignon has amused herself tolerably well, but Raymond’s 
patience is well-nigh worn out. He sees her occasionally, for, 
in spite of her husband’s displeasure, she continues to meet him 
now and then by appointment, and he writes to her frequently. 
Sir Tristram exercises no surveillance over the post-bag, and my 
lady’s letters are invariably brought to her by her maid whilst 
she is dressing. Raymond’s letters amuse her; there is a pleas- 
ant spice of danger in this correspondence— a feeling of doing- 
something she ought not; though, as far as her own letters go, 
there is nothing in them that might not be proclaimed by the 
town crier. 

Raymond is growing ill, wretched, desperate; people are be- 
ginning to comment, too, upon his changed appearance; he feels 
himself no nearer his love and his vengeance than he was six 
months ago. He can no longer deceive himself with the idea 
that Mignon really cares for him, but his passion is rather in- 
creased than decreased by her indifference. Sometimes he vows 
to go to the uttermost parts of the earth to get away from her, 
and then the sight of her golden hair, her dark-blue eyes, and 
her lovely, laughing mouth, witch him back, and he finds it im- 
possible to tear himself away. He is reaping the punishment of 
his uncurbed passions. Sir Tristram is hardly to be envied, but 
his life is positive bliss compared with Raymond’s. 

For some days Mignon has been preparing for an act of re- 
bellion. There is to be a meet four miles distant — in fact, not 
far from L’Estrange Hall— and she has made up her mind to ride 
there. 


MIGNON. 


“ Look out for me/’ she says to Raymond. • I shall be there, 
and, what is more, I mean to follow,” 

“You won’t,” answers Raymond, moodily; “ he will not let 
you.” 

“ You will see,” says Mignon, with sparkling eyes, “ Mind 
you are there before me.” 

And that night, at dinner, my lady says, with an innocent 
face, to her lord: 

“ I am going to ride to the meet on Wednesday.” 

The servants are in the room. ' Sir Tristram only smiles, and 
says: “ Are you, my dear?” 

“Yes,” she replies, firmly, though she feels a little nervous; 
“ so, when you see me start, don’t say I did not give you fair 
warning.” 

Sir Tristram makes no answer; but when they are alone he 
says: 

“ My darling, I hope you were only in jest when you spoke of 
riding to the meet. You know, I think, that I give way to you 
in almost everything; but I have a very great objection to this, 
and I trust you will not vex me by pressing it further.” 

My lady has arranged in her own mind exactly what she will 
say if her lord proves contumacious, and she now proceeds to 
say it without the least pity or compunction. Her cheeks glow 
with a soft carmine, there is unmistakable fire in her eyes, and 
no one looking at her could doubt for a moment that she is quite 
in earnest. She has not yet learned to command her voice, 
which is always several tones higher when she is displeased. 

“ Before I married you,” she says, “ you promised that I should 
do everything I liked. Now you try* to tyrannize over me in 
every possible way; and I won’t bear it. I icon't bear it ” {cres- 
cendo). “ And if you don’t let me go on Wednesday, I will 
leave you and go straight off to my own people, if I have to beg 
my way to them.” 

The expression of Lady Bergholt’s face and the accent of her 
voice bespeak such thorough determination that Sir Tristram is 
utterly stupefied. And the reader will, I have no doubt, be out 
of all patience with him when I chroncile the fact that he offers 
no further opposition to her going. 

But he loves her; he would do anything in the world rather 
than separate himself from her, and he believes her capable of 
caiTying out her threat. After all, he is not the only weak and 
foolishly fond husband on record. All he does is this" He sends 
for the head groom on Tuesday evening, and tells him that Lady 
Bergholt will ride to the meet next morning, and bids him keep 
close beside her, in case her horse should get excited and trou 
blesome. 

“And remember,” he adds, in an accent of unmistakable 
authority, “ I do not suppose for an instant that Lady Bergholt 
will wish to follow, but, in case she should, you will say that you 
have my positive commands not to do so.” " 

He is horribly anxious lest some evil should befall his 
darling, whom you and 1, reader, do not tliink such a very great 
treasure. 


MIONON. 


225 


Mignon is radiant as she mounts her horse next morning. 
When the weaker vessel does get her own way by the strong 
hand, she is always very proud of it; and my lady is ho excep- 
tion. 

You will not think of following,” are Sir Tristram’s parting 
words; but she makes a defiant little moue in answer, that causes 
iiis heart to throb witn a painful misgiving. 

“ Remember!” he says to the groom, as she rides off, in a tone 
as impressive as that in which King Charles the Martyr made 
his memorable utterance. 

“Yes, Sir Tristram,” answers the man, with stolid gravity, as 
he touches his hat. But to himself he says, “ How the plague 
does he think I’m going to stop her, if he can’t ?” 

“ You see,” cries Mignon, triumphantly, to Raymond, as she 
canters up. “I told you I would come, and here I am. And 
now,” she adds, gayly, “ I mean to enjoy myself thoroughly.” 

Several men come forward to greet her, and ask if she is 
going to follow; and she answers, laughing, “ Yes, and I mean 
to have the brush.” 

“So you shall,” answers the master, cordially, with a glance 
of genuine admiration at her lovely face, “ if the other fair 
Amazons cut me dead for it.” 

“ I thought so,” remarks the groom to himself. I might as 
well try to stop her as the beck in a flood. Well, I can but lose 
my place. She’s master of him, so she’s like to be master o’ me.” 
And he sits down philosophically in his saddle, not altogether 
displeased with the idea of a run. “ For of course,” he reflects, 
“ if she do go I am bound to f oiler.” 

Seeing Raymond in attendance, no one ventures to offer Lady 
Bergholt a lead; indeed, he is probably the only man who does 
not consider the office a bore. A man must be very much in 
love to like to give a woman a lead, particularly in her first ex- 
periment across country. Raymond has no intention of letting 
his fair charge incur any danger, and, as he knows there is no 
enjoyment for himself in the way of sport to be got out of to- 
day’s run, he thinks more about the chances of a long, pleasant 
ride back along the lanes, where there is more scope for con- 
versation than in the hunting-field. The hounds are not long- 
finding: the business of the day is about to commence. Jackson 
rides up to his mistress and salutes her respectfully; 

“ Beg pardon, my lady- -Sir Tristram gave me most positive 
orders as you was not to follow.” He has placed his horse right 
in front of her. 

“ Get out of the way! What do you mean?” cries Mignon, 
imperiously; and Jackson has no alternative but to fall back 
and follow. 

“ Don’t lose your head, don’t pull your horse at a fence, and 
keep close to me,” says Raymond, as they break into a gallop. 

It is very easy going at first, and Raymond knows every inch 
of the country; so that Mignon is in an ecstasy of delight and 
enjoyment. It is a short run — under three miles, and she is act- 
ually in at the death. The master brings her the brush. 


226 3nGN0N. 

And well earned too, by Jove!” he says, gallantly, as he pre- 
sents it.” 

Mignon is radiant with delight and excitement. She has never 
looked more lovely. Raymond is full of pride and triumph as 
he sees the glances men cast upon her. 

Presently another fox is found in a wood belonging to IMi’s. 
Stratheden, and they are off again. Raymond is beginning to 
feel more confidence in Mignon’s riding, and leads the way over 
rather a bigger fence. Her horse takes it perfectly, and away 
they sail again. They are somewhat separated from tlie rest of 
the field. Raymond has formed his own opinion as to the line 
of country the fox means to take, and is bent on a short cut. 

The next fence is a very easy one; he scarcely stops to look 
behind until he hears a loud cry from the groom. With diffi- 
culty he reins in his excited horse and turns. Never, never, if 
he lives to the longest span that is allotted to man, will he for- 
get the horror of that time. Lady Bergholt and her horse are 
both struggling on the ground, and as he turns he sees the chest- 
nut strike out twice in its endeavor to rise, he hears the dull thud 
of the blow against the human flesh, and in a moment that ex- 
quisite face, the delight of every one who gazed upon it, is turned 
into a sight appalling enough to sicken the strongest man. 

Raymond is off his horse in a second: it gallops away after 
that other riderless one. The groom, too, has dismounted, and 
holds his horse’s bridle, whilst he looks with blanched face from 
Raymond to the horrid spectacle at their feet. Raymond is no 
coward, but he has highly-strung nerves: he has almost a 
woman’s shrinking from painful sights. And now the woman 
he has loved — for his love is all gone and buried in horror now 
— the woman whom he has tempted to rebel against her hus- 
band, is lying mangled before him, and he feels that her blood 
is on his head. Is she dead ? For one wild moment he almost 
prays she is: it seems a less awful fate than to live changed from 
one of God’s loveliest creatures to a spectacle that will make 
men shudder; he would fain fly from the sight himself, would 
fain ride aw^ay for help and leave the groom by her side, but 
every spark of manliness cries out against it. And so, for his 
heavy doom and punishment, he kneels down and takes into his 
arms this form whose face is crushed out of knowledge and 
hidden by blood, and there, with his ghastly burden, he stays 
what seems to him an eternity, whilst the groom gallops away 
for help. She is not dead: she begins to writhe in his arms; she 
even puts up a hand to tear at her wounds; he has to hold it by 
main force. He feels as though his reason would leave him, the 
horror is so intense, and all the time his stricken conscience is 
crying aloud to him, “ This is God’s judgment upon you!” 

“ It is not in reality ten minutes, though it seems a century to 
Raymond, before there comes the sound of voices and of hurry- 
ing feet. They place her on a rudely-constructed litter, and he 
has to walk by the side, still holding her hand as she groans and 
writhes, unconscious though she is of any word spoken to her. 
And when they reach the door of the little village inn, the host 
says to him, I’m afraid we can’t get her up the stairs, poor 


MIGNOK 




lady, unless you carry her in your arms, sir.” And again, white 
and shuddering, Raymond must take up this terrible freight, 
that half an hour ago would have been so dainty a burden, and 
carry it to the bedroom on the first floor. Then he makes as if 
to leave the room. 

“ Oh, please, sir, won’t you stop till the doctor comes?” cries 
the affrighted landlady: “ I durstn’t stop with the poor spduI 
alone.” And mechanically Raymond sits down in a chair and 
goes through anotlier century of agony. A thought comes to 
him; he will send for Olga; she is always the one to turn to for 
help and sympathy. So he curtly bids the landlady send some 
one to tell Mrs. Stratheden what has happened; he knows she 
will lose no time in coming. At last the doctor arrives. 

“You had best not stop here,” he says, gently; “and the 
groom is waiting to bet you.” 

No sentence of reprieve to a doomed man could be niore joyful 
than these words to Raymond. He staggers out of the room, 
and down-stairs, where a crowd is gathered. The groom sepa- 
rates himself from it and comes out. 

“If you please, sir,” he says, “won’t you go and break the 
news to my master?” 

Raymond reels as if he had been struck. 

. “I!” he says. “iVb. I cannot. You must go.” 

“ Begging your pardon, sir, but I won’t,” says the man, reso- 
lutely. “ He gave me positive oraers not to go; and it wasn’t 
my fault, but I can’t face him.” 

“ Get my horse,” mutters Raymond, and, sick and white, he 
mounts and rides away in the direction of Bergholt. And still 
the words are ringing in his ears, “This is God’s judgment upon 
you.” He rides like the wild huntsman; he is ghastly white and 
covered with blood; the few people who meet him stand aside, 
scared. He does not draw rein till he comes to the avenue, and 
there, standing on the steps, evidently on the lookout for some 
one, stands Sir Tristram. 

As Raymond rides up, blood-stained and looking like death, 
the first thing that occurs to Sir Tristram is that he has had a 
bad fall and has come for assistance. He forgets his anger and 
animosity, and cries, in kind, anxious tones: 

“ You are hurt, my boy. What is it? What can we do for 
you ?” 

Raymond reels out of the saddle and stands staring and stam- 
mering; his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. Two serv- 
ants run out. 

“ Take Mr. L’Estrange’s horse. Get some brandy,” Sir Tris- 
tram cries to them. “ Here, my boy, lean on me.” But Ray- 
mond waves him off and falls staggering against the door. 

“ It is not me,” he gasps. “ Lady Bergholt — White Hart Inn 
— Alling^on.” And then he swoons dead away, and is for the 
first time relieved of his intolerable agony. 

Sir Tristram stands for a moment as though a blow had been 
dealt him. “ The dog-cart,” he says, in a trembling voice, and 
one servant flies to the stables, whilst another leads off Raymond’s 
horse, and a third tries to pour brandy down his tliroat. In an 


MIGNOX, 




incredibly short time the dog-cart is round, and Sir Tristram in 
it; he has to take that fearful drive in utter uncertainty, con- 
jecturing the worst from Raymond’s horror-stricken face, from 
his terrible agitation and the marks of blood upon him, for he is 
still insensible. The White Hart is six miles distant; they do it in 
half an hour, but to Sir Tristram it seems half an eternity. Will 
hi# darling be dead ? Oh, pray God not! he can bear anything, • 
he thinks, if only her life be spared. Little knots of twos and 
threes are standing near the inn door; they slink away as he 
drives up, and he augurs the worst. In the passage, Olga meets 
him, and draws him toward the little parlor. 

“ She is not dead,” she whispers, hurriedly, anticipating him. 

“ Mr. Thorp does not think she will die. I have telegraphed lor 
P , and also to Leeds for Dr. .” 

‘‘Let me go to her,” murmurs Sir Tristram, hoarsely. “Is 
she conscious ?” 

“ No. Y>^ait a moment!” And Olga plucks him by the sleeve, 
yet hesitates, as if there is something she cannot make up her 
mind to say. 

‘* What is it?” he says, looking into her eyes with a steadfast 
gaze, though his lips quiver. 

“ Try and bear it,” she whispers, taking his hand, while the 
tears gather m her eyes. “ If— if she lives, we fear she wull be 
disfigured. The horse kicked her in the face.” 

“ Is that all ?” he cries, almost joyfully. “ Oh, if God is only 
pleased to spare her to me, I can bear anything else!” 

Olga precedes him softly up the stairs, and when she has 
opened the door and has seen the doctor come toward him, she 
creeps away again down-stairs into the little parlor, and there 
she sobs her heart out for pity of the lost beauty of the woman 
who hated her, as she might have wept if it had been her own 
sister. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“ ‘ Sir,’ he said, ‘ if you had seen the miseries of the world, you would 
know how to value your present state.’ 

“ ‘ Now,’ said the prince, ‘you liave given me something to desire; I 
shall long to see he miseries of the world, since the sight of them is nec- 
essary to happiness.” 

On the June night when Leo urged Raymond to fight against 
his passion for Mignon, and to go abroad with him, he made his 
own resolve not to delay his journey longer. Why should he 
stop to suffer fresh pangs ? why should he witness Lord Harley’s 
triumph, when it was breaking his own heart ? Almost imme- 
diately after parting from Raymond, he ran against another 
friend; a small, fair, delicate-looking lad he seemed, though as 
a matter of fact he was two years Leo’s senior, and a captain in 
her majesty’s foot guards — Captain the Honorable Hercules 
Clyde, better knowm to his friends and intimates by the name of 
the pigmy. 

“Halloo, Leo! where are you off to like an av^anche?” is his 
greeting to Leo, who has nearly run over him. “ Please to re- 


MIGNON. 


m 


member that the parish of St. James’ didn’t lay down the pave- 
ment entirely with a view to your convenience, and that the 
smallest and humblest of her majesty’s lieges is entitled to a 
portion of it.” 

'‘How are you, pigmy?” answers Leo, laughing. "I beg 
your pardon. I didn’t see you.” 

“Really! I flattered myself I was visible to the naked eye, 
even without my bear-skin. Well, how are you, old fellow, and 
where do you spring from ? ‘ By the struggling moonbeam’s 
misty light, and the lantern dimly burning.’ I should conject- 
ure that the wild excitement of the town doesn’t suit your 
country constitution. You look uncommon seedy.” 

“ Do I?” says Leo. “Oh, I’m all right. The air doesn’t feel 
very fresh and bracing, though, does it?” he adds, expanding 
his chest and taking in a long breath. 

“ It suits me,” returns the pigmy, linking his arm in Leo’s. 
“ I don’t like it too fresh. Where are you off to ? If she isn’t 
waiting for you, and you’re not late already, I’ll make your way 
mine.” 

And the two stroll along in friendly talk. Presently Leo brings 
up the subject of his intended journey. 

“No!” cries the pigmy, stopping dead short in the middle of 
the pavement, and putting his glass in his eye. “ Not really! 
You don’t mean to say you are going to America and round the 
world! Why, my dear old Leo! I thought if ever a man’s soul 
was in the turnips of his fatherland — if ever a man had broad 
and enlightened prejudices against every other country and 
its inhabitants — it was the present chip of the old block of 
Vyner.” 

“Did you?” laughs Leo. “Perhaps you were right once; 
but now my soul has begun to soar above turnips, and I am going 
to travel for the express purpose of getting rid of my preju- 
dices.” 

“ Do you know,” says the pigmy, with solemnity, “that I’ve 
been dying to go to America for years ? All our fellows who 
were in Canada have done nothing ever since but rave about 
America and American women; and I have only been waiting 
till I could get some fellow big and strong enough to take care 
of me. Now, you’re the one of all others I should have pitched 
upon; only it never entered my brain to think of your going.” 

“ Come with me,” says Leo, heartily. “ I shall be only too 
glad.” 

“ Done!” cries the pigmy. “ And when we’ve done New York, 
and Niagara, and Saratoga, we’ll go and hunt the grizzly bear and 
the wapiti stag.” 

“ How soon can you start?” says Leo. 

“ Not before the first week in August.” 

“ Oh!” says Leo, hesitating; “ I wanted to start in a fort- 
night.” 

“What are you in such a deuce of a hurry for?” asks the 
pigmy, “ Have you only just screwed up your courage, and 
are you afraid of its oozing away if you don’t take it whilst it’s 
in the humor ?” 


390 MIGNON. 

“ I do want most particularly to start at once,” aaya Leo, in a 
low voice. 

“ Has s/ic thrown you over? Nonsense, Leo! I don’t believe 
you ever spoke ten words to a woman in your life, and that’s 
the only reason, that and having been caught cheating at cards, 
that ever makes a man in a violent hurry to fly his country. 
And, my innocent, I should as soon suspect you of breaking 
your heart about a woman, as of turning up the king once too 
often.” 

“ Of course,” says Leo, there is nothing I should like better 
than to have you for a traveling companion, but ” 

“ Don’t say anything about but. If it would give you so 
much pleasure, don’t think of denying yourself for a moment. 
You see, my dear Leo, there’s inspection the end of July, and, 
though I firmly believe it would go off just as well without me, 
I should never be able to persuade them of it at the Horse 
Guards. And then you’re a free agent and can quit your coun- 
try whenever you feel disposed; but I have to ask leave. Come, 
now, don’t be selfish, there’s a good fellow. I’ve set my heart 
on going with you.” 

“ Let me think about it,” answers Leo. 

“ That’s just what I can’t,” retorts the pigmy. ‘‘ If I parted 
from you without having nailed you, I should receive a polite 
and affectionate letter at the Guards’ Club to-morrow morning, 
regretting very much that your plans, etc., etc. No! now or 
never. Say the word that is to make me the happiest of men ” 
(and the pigmy, who is as full of tricks and jests as a schoolboy, 
grasps his friend’s hand in a pathetic and lover-like way), ‘‘or 
seal my wretchedness forever.” 

Leo laughs. 

“ If you don’t mind, pigmy, you'll be locked up before you 
know where you are. I see No. X 64 looking at you with a 
lingering eye.” 

“ No, really? Dear Mr. Policeman,” says the madcap pigmy, 
apostrophizing the grinning guardian of the streets, “ think not 
’tis wine that makes my heart so glad. I assure you ’tis but joy 
at meeting a long-lost friend. Now, Leo, come; to be or not to 
be?” 

“We will talk it over to-morrow. When you have had 
time to reflect, perhaps you may not be so keen about it. 
Come and breakfast with me, and we’ll go over all the pros and 
cons.” 

And so they part. Leo gets very little sleep that night. He 
is desperately unhappy about Olga. From what Lady Bergholt 
has said, still more from Kitty’s words, he feels that her mar* 
riage with Lord Harley is a settled thing, and the sooner he puts 
himself beyond the power to see or hear of her the better it will 
be for him. He would like immensely to have Captain Clyde’s 
company; since their Eton days they have always been great 
friends, and the pigmy has such spirits, and is such a thorough 
good little fellow, and a sportsman to boot, that Leo feels it 
would be the best thing that could happen to him to get him for 
u traveling companion. But to spend five or six more weeks in 


MIGNOK 


m 


England, with nothing to do but to be restless and wretched— 
the sacrifice seems almost too great, even for so desirable a con- 
summation. But at breakfast next morning Captain Clyde is so 
enthusiastic about the trip, and so urgent in entreating Leo to 
wait for him, that he consents. But he has had enough of Lon- 
don, and resolves to go home and dev^ote the rest of the time be- 
fore starting to his father. He must see Olga once ere he goes, 
must take his final leave of her, must hear her soft voice wish 
him Godspeed. And so he writes to her; 

I am going down home to-morrow, and shall probably not 
be in London again until just before I start for America, the 
first week in August. You will have left town long before then. 
May I call and wish you ‘ good-bye ’ some time to-day V” 

He dispatches a commiss^ionnaire with his note, and direc- 
tions to wait for an answer. It is not long in coming; 

I shall be at home all the afternoon. Come when you like.” 

After receiving and answering Leo’s missive, Olga has a severe 
struggle with herself. Shall she let him go? She knows she 
has to say but one word to keep him by her side, and she knows 
that she loves him. At one moment she thinks she will say the 
word, will brave the world’s wonder and ridicule, will risk ‘her 
future happiness. But her reason tights against this decision. 

“ No,” it says; “ he is but a boy. He has never been in love 
before. Here is an opportunity of testing whether it is a fleet- 
ing passion or a real love that he feels for you. Let him go — ^go, 
thinking you care for Lord Harley, and mean to marry him — go, 
determined to tear you out of his heart; and then, when he re- 
turns in eight or ten months’ time, if his love for you is still un- 
changed — then, rash as the venture may be, you will have some 
excuse for believing in the enduring power of his affection.” 

Another doubt assails Olga. It says; 

“You have no time to loose. True, you have not yet begun to 
fade or look old; you have not a gray hair nor a" perceptible 
wrinkle; but a year at your time of life is of very great impor- 
tance. When he returns you will be nearly thirty-one, and he 
, five-and-twenty. Somehow, twenty-nine seems so much younger 
I than thirty.” 

Olga tries hard to be strong, but sho is not sure of herself. 
And it is more than probable that if Leo had spoken to her as he 
did the previous autumn, if he had pleaded to her in his impas- 
sioned young voice and with all the fervor of his heart as he did 
then, she might have yielded to his prayer, and the pigmy would 
have had to forego his American trip; at all events, in Leo’s com- 
pany. But Fate has its own way of ordering matters, without 
much reference to the will of beings who are still pleased to con- 
sider themselves free agents. In the first place, it ordained that 
Leo should resolve in his heart to betray no sign of weakness 
during his farewell interview with the woman he loved. He 
would not pain her by seeming unhappy! he would make no 
reference to Lord Harley; he would endeavor to behave in a 
manly spirit, that he might not cause her pain, nor seem in any 


282 


2nGN0N, 


way to reproach her for what was no fault of hers, though it had 
proved the misfortune and misery of his life. 

In the second place, Fate ordained that poor Leo should see 
Lord Harley leaving Mrs. Stratheden’s house just as he came 
within half a dozen doors of it. It happened in this way. Olga 
had given orders that she was “ not at home,” and Lord Harley, 
in common with other callers, received that answer. But he 
had a message that he particularly wished to give to Mrs. Strathe- 
den, and, being on sufficiently intimate terms at the house, he 
told the butler he would go into the library and write a note. 
Thus he, of course, appeared to Leo to have been received by 
Olga; and the poor lad felt stung to the quick. But he was too 
loyal to accuse his mistress of having given him intentional pain 
in letting him run the risk of meeting Lord Harley. 

Truscott, who is devoted to Leo, remarks the painful agitation 
in his face, as he ushers him up-stairs, and feels great sympathy 
for him. 

When the drawing-room bell rings,” he says to the footmen 
on descending, “you needn’t come up. I’ll show Mr. Vyner 
out. 

With considerable delicacy of feeling, he augurs that Leo may 
perhaps not care to be looked at by prying eyes when he comes 
down again. 

The interview is embarrassing to both. Olga, knowing noth- 
ing of Lord Harley’s call, cannot give an explanation of it to 
Leo. An explanation, too, at such a critical moment might 
have been dangerous. At the first sight of his love, alone, too, 
as he has not seen her for many a long day, Leo is on the verge 
of forgetting his resolutions; but he makes a strong effort, and 
is almost cold, almost distant in manner. He speaks of his in- 
tended journey as though the thought were a real pleasure to 
him rather than pain and grief. He talks himself into a false 
enthusiasm, which deceives Olga, who is exceedingly sensitive, 
and prone to doubt her own power. She is disappointed, chilled, 
and her own manner becomes cooler, more distant. A woman 
is conscious of her strength, and can use it as long as she has to 
refuse a man who pleads to her; but when no favor is asked of 
her, she is almost nettled into offering it. 

Olga is more than half tempted to reproach Leo with fickle- 
ness and infidelity. It is not long before mutually embarrassed, 
mutually disappointed, each wishes the interview at an end. 

Leo rises to go: Olga rises too: she does not bid him stay. As 
he goes toward her to take his long farewell, Leo's strength 
wanes. There is a mist between him and the face he loves and 
may never see again; the old feelings surge up in his breast; he 
longs to take her in his arms for once, to kiss her eyes, her lips, 
her hair, to entreat her for the last time. But his reverence for 
her is even stronger than his passion. What if she should be 
offended, indignant: He dares not risk parting from her in 
anger: so he takes the little jeweled fingers in his, lays his lips 
reverently upon them, and with this he goes. 

When he is gone, Olga retreats to her room, and is no more 


MI-GNOK 


m 

seen until dinner. Mrs. Forsyth’s quick eyes remark that her 
eyelids are swollen and pink, and draws her own conclusions. 

As for Leo, as he goes away from the door and down the 
street, his heart sinks lower at every step, he feels unuttera.bly 
wretched, the sunshine irks him, the gay bustle of the crowded 
streets jars upon him, and for the first time in his life he wishes 
he had never been born. 

The days lag wearily. He tries to be cheerful in the presence 
of his father. But Mr. Vyiier is dull and out of sorts too: he is 
miserable about Leo’s journey, and yet he feels that it will be 
almost a relief when he is gone. He cannot but notice how 
haggard and wretched the boy looks. The poor old squire is 
more vindictive than ever against Olga: every time he looks ^at 
Leo he applies to her mentally some uncomplimentary epithet, 
coupled with curses deep and broad. He begins to* hate all 
women for her sake; the sight even of his housekeeyer, whom 
he has alwa^^s regarded with an eye of favor, is displeasing to 
him. That buxom person has no idea of being under the ban of 
her master’s disfavor without knowing th^ reason why, and vent- 
ures one day to put the question what she has done to displease 
him. 

“ Done!” growls the squire. Nothing in particular. You’re 
a woman: that’s enough.” 

Mrs. Hales looks a little surprised, as well she may. 

“ You’re all full of your cursed tricks and wiles,” cries her 
master, wrathfully. “Why can’t you leave us poor devils of 
men alone ?” 

“Really, sir!” exclaims the housekeeper, bridling under the 
idea that Mr. Vyner intends some personality. 

“ Pshaw!” he says, with a grim laugh. “ I don’t mean you. 
You’re a good enough woman in your way. Still. I dare say, if 
you had the chance, you’d lead some poor fellow the life of the 
d d.” 

Mrs. Hales retires in high dudgeon, and imparts to the butler 
her belief that the squire has gone off his head. 

“ Not he!” is the answer. “ Don’t you see what he is driving 
at ? Why, Mr. Leo is fretting about some lady or other, and it 
makes the old gentleman quite mad.” 

“ Poor Mr. Leo!” says the housekeeper, sympathizingly. “ I’m" 
sure she must be a fine piece of goods if he isn’t good enough for 
her.” 

“ Perhaps there’s a hobstacle,” suggests the butler. “ Perhaps 
she’s got a husband.” 

“ Lor’, Mr. Simpson, don’t say such a thing!” cries Mrs. Hales, 
looking shocked; but from that moment she adopts this view of 
the case, and feels increased sympathy for, and interest in, her 
young master. 

The day of Leo’s departure comes at last; the dog-cart is at the 
door; he has gone round and shaken hands with every one, bid- 
den them “good-bye,” and received their hearty good- wishes; 
men, women, and children are all hidden in corners and looking 
through loopholes to see the last of him. The squire comes out 
on the steps to see him off. 


m 


MIBNOK 


‘*God biess you, my boy! God bless you!” he says, clutching 
his son's hand as in a vise, and speaking in a strangely hoarse, 
tremulous tone. 

“ Good-bye, my dear old dad,” says Leo, in a voice no whit 
firmer, though he tries to infuse a great deal of cheerfulness into 
it. “I shall write you yards of letters whenever I get a chance. 
Good-bye! Good-bye!” 

He is off. The squire stands for a moment until he is out of 
sight, then he brushes something away from his eyes with the 
back of his hand, d — ns his favorite dog who gets in his way, 
makes a rush for his room, and shuts the door with a slam that 
makes the house shake. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Leo and Captain Clyde are on board the Cunard steamer 
bound for New York. They left Queenstown yesterday morn- 
ing, and begin to feel quite at home with their new life. The 
pigmy’s first excitement is calming down, and he has already 
embarked in a flirtation with a very pretty girl, one of the 
passengers. 

“ I have discovered the name of my idol,” he says to Leo, as 
they take an after-dinner stroll. ‘‘She is Miss Maud Marian 
Hutchins, and she lives in a house with a brown-stone front in 
Fifth Avenue, New York. Isn't she a screamer ? Not quite so 
big as I should like; she is only half a head taller than me, and 
not quite enough developed for my taste; but she is the biggest 
woman on board— at all events the biggest that has shown up 

Why this passion for big women, pigmy?” asks Leo, laugh- 
ing. 

‘•Isn’t it self-evi lent?” answers the pigmy. “Women like 
either one thing or the other. I’m not a great hulking fellow like 
you, whom they expect to protect and take care of them; on 
the contrary, they love to protect and take care of me and pet 
me. And big women are always so jolly and good-natured (if 
they’re plump, that is); whereas nine out of ten little women are 
vixens. Maud Marian seems particularly amiable, and has a 
charming, frank way of giving her opinion, and of asking 
questions, that is irresistible. I am not quite so sweet on Papa 
Hutchins: he seems to have the traditional veneration for the 
almighty dollar and his own country, and tells me that for a 
young chap who wants to see life and real slap-up-looking girls 
ISf’ York’s the place. He considers London a very one-horse place 
as far as amusement is concerned, though he admits it’s the 
mercantile city of the world. Here comes my charmer. I’ll 
introduce you, if you promise not to take a mean advantage of 
your six feet to cut me out.” 

“ No, thanks,'’ answers Leo. “I dare say she’d rather have 
you all to herself.” And he walks away. 

The pigmy proceeds to join Miss Hutchins, who is remarkably 
handsome, even for an American. She has dark brown rippling 
hair, fine eyes, sparkling with fun, a lovely complexion, and 


MIOmK 




pearly teeth, which she .shows liberally, though naturally, every 
time she speaks or laughs, which is by no means unfrequently. 
Her hands are small, and it is really wonderful how she can 
ti'amp up and down in the indefatigable way she does on her 
tiny, daintil 3 ^-shod feet. She is eminently unlike her fatlier, 
who is one of the class his countrymen love to call “ Petroleum,” 
and Shoddy;” and indeed it is through having ‘‘struck ile” 
some ten years ago that Mr. Hutchins has amassed the hand- 
some fortune of which he is now the proud owner. Young la- 
dies have before now applied the same contemptuous epithets to 
Maud Marian. She overheard tliem once, and went in much 
wrath and tribulation to her fatlier. He gave something be- 
tween a laugh and a snort. “ Let 'em call you what they damn 
please,” he said, consolingly; *' tliere’s precious few of ’em you 
can't take the shine out of, "and if your looks ain’t enough, why, 
I can back ’em up with dollars, anyhow!” And Mr. Hutchins 
slapped his pockets till they emitted a resonance that ai)peared 
to give him considerable satisfaction. 

Guess your friend's got a touch of the dismals,'’ observes 
handsome Maud Marian, as Captain Clyde joins her. She is a 
little piqued that Leo does not seem to desire her acquaintance. 

P’rhaps he’s a bit squeamish yet. I noticed he wasn’t much 
up to his meals.” 

Now, the pigmy has a mania for practical jokes— not the 
practical jokes that endanger life and limb and partake of the 
nature of horse-play, but he dearly loves to entrap people's 
credulity by extraordinary stories. As he possesses a wonderfid 
command of countenance, he is not unfrequently successful. 

“Ay,’' he says, gravely, “he has a strange story, poor 
fellow!” 

“ Won't you tell it me now ?” asks Maud Marian, peruasively. 
“ When I go around. I like to pick up a heap of queer stories to 
tell when I go back.” 

“ Come and sit down, then,” says the pigmy. “ As the im- 
mortal Watts remarks, in his beautiful poem; 

“ ‘ Those little feet were never made 
To tramp around all day.’ ” 

“ Guess you’re pokin’ fun at me, Mr. Vyner!” observes Maud 
Marian, showing her two little rows of pearls. 

Now, if it’s not an impertinent question,” says the pigmy, 
placing a rocking-chair for her, and ensconcing himself in a 
contiguous one, “ how did you know' that my name was 
Vyner ?” 

“ Well,” responds the young lady, frankly, “I know wan of 
you is the Honorable Captain Hercules Clyde, and 1 guessed it 
couldn’t be yew.” 

“ Because Hercules was a big fellow,” suggested the pigmy. 

“ Jest so,” responds Maud Marian, with a merry laugh. 

“ Well, you see,” says the pigmy, in an explanatory tone, “ in 
our country they christen you whilst you are still in your in- 
fancy; and as, unfortunately, it wasn’t in the power of my god- 
fathers and godmother to add a cubit to my stature when I 


MIONOK 


grew up, they didn't know what a very inappropriate thing tiiey 
were doing in giving me the family name.” 

“It won’t do!” said Maud Marian, shaking her head. “I 
know you’re not Captain Clj^de.” 

“How do you knowV” asks the pigmy, putting his glass in 
his eye, and contemplating with mucli pleasure the charming 
face before him. 

“ Because he’s in the guards,” cries the fair one triumphantly. 
“ Ah! you didn’t think I knew that tew when you tried to hoax 
me. You might be called Hercules and be a little chap, but 
you couldn’t be a little chap and be in the English guards.” 

“Allow me to set you right,” says the pigmy, gravely. 
“ Nearly all the officers in the guards are small; they pick them 
out on purpose to show otf the men.’" 

“ No!” exclaims Maud Marian, incredulously. 

' ‘ Fact, I assure you. There are officers in her majesty’s bri^ 
gade of guards smaller than me.” 

“Well, you do astdund me, anyhow!” utters Maud Marian. 
“ And you want me to go right away and believe that you’re the 
Honorable Captain Hercules Clyde, of the guards ?” 

“ My name is certainl}^ Hercules Clyde,” replies the pigmy, 
imperturbably, “ and I have the honor to hold a commission ia 
the foot guards.” 

‘ ' And you mean to say that you march around with them 
great big "fellers with the muffs on their heads r” 

“ I do.” 

“ Well,” remarks Miss Hutchins, with a certain amount of ad 
miration, “ you air a spunky little chap!” 

“ I’m delighted to have your good othnion,” says the pigmy, 
with perfect gravity. 

“I will say they dew look lovely, the English guards!” ex 
claims Maud Marian, with enthusiasm. “ Your women are a 
poor lot, excuse me, sir, and look as if they dressed out of a 
cast-off -clot lies store; but your men are grand. Why, English- 
men and Amer’can women could lick the world between ’eml 
Why, when I fust came to London, and went around, I says, 

‘ Well, where’s all this English beauty they make such a fuss 
about? for I haven’t set eyes on it yet, and I’ve been up and 
down, up and down, in Hyde Park, tevr whole days, and around 
Bond Street and Piccadilly.’ ‘ You must go to Ascot,’ says some 
one. So pa and me we got on the cars, and dowm we went. 
Well, there was the Princess of Wales — she’s a reel beauty, but 
she isn’t English at all — and there was p’r’aps a dozen or so hand- 
some-looking women who perhaps Worth or La Feiriere might 
have turned out, but the rest were as or’nary-looking a lot as 
ever I saw, with their clothes jiitchforked on, and feet as long 
and as flat as a dish.” And Maud Marian contemplates her owm 
charming little foot with undisguised satisfaction. “Guess 
you’ll see more beauty fust afternoon you walk up Fifth Avenue, 
than there was collected together at Ascot Cup day. And my! 
if you want to see women rigged out, you’ll see it in N’York, 
and no mistake.” 

“Our chief object in visiting America,” remarks the pigmy, 


MIONON. 

gravely, ** is to see the beauty of your ladies, the fame of which 
is very great in London.” 

*'Why, is it now?” exclaims Maud Marian, with that naive 
and genuine pleasure Americans always take in hearing any- 
thing that belongs to them praised, especially by an English 
person. 

“ I confess it is very easy for me to believe all I have heard in 
that respect,^ says the pigmy, looking with deliberate admira- 
tion at his fair interlocutor. 

Maud Marian gives a merry laugh. She does not attempt to 
parry the obvious compliment. 

“ Oh, wal,*’ she says, “ I guess I’m not ugly enough to scare 
crows wiyi; but wait till you’ve seen some of our reel beauties, 
and you won’t think much to the Venus de Medici after them, 
anyliow. There’s your friend again, looking dismaler than 
ever, and all this time you haven’t told me that story about 
him.” 

“ Between ourselves.” utters the pigmy, in a low, impressive 
voice, “ he’s not quite right here.” And he gives a little tap to 
his forehead. 

“ Why, isn’t he, now?” says Maud Marian, seriously. 

And I,” continues the pigmy, am taking care of him.” 
Yew!” laughs Maud Marian. 

'^Yes,” answers the pigmy, solemnly, ‘‘Brute force is no 
good. Sampson wouldn’t have been any use with him. It’s 
moral influence. Now, I possess moral influence to an extraor- 
dinary degree. If you look at my eye. Miss Hutchins, you’ll 
understand in a moment what I mean.” And Captain Clyde 
turns a steady and unfaltering look on Maud Marian, though 
there is a faint twitch about the corners of his mouth, 

“ Guess the glass has a lot to do with your moral influence,” 
she laughs merrily. “But now do tell, what is the reel Mr, 
Vyner’s story ?” 

The pigmy contracts his face till it vrears an expression al- 
most of horror, and, putting his lips very close to his listener’s 
ear, he whispers: 

“ He’s a misogynist.” 

Maud Marian arches her pretty eyebrows with an expression 
of awed wonder. 

“ And what is that, sir?” she asks the pigmy, perplexed, 

A woman-hater,” he says, solemnly, 

‘'Wal,”she laughs, merrily, “if he don’t get cured o’ that 
complaint our side o’ the watter, guess it’s taken such a hold of 
him it’s not like to come out at all.” 

“ That’s the very reason we are taking this trip,” says the 
pigmy, with increased seriousness. “He’s had all the hand- 
somest Englishwomen at his feet, but he won’t look at them. 
Then some one suggested America.” . 

“ Why, now, has he?” remarks Maud Marian, looking at Leo’s 
distant figure with considerable interest. “ But why can’t he be 
let alone? If he hates us, guess the loss is his side more’n ours.” 

“ You see,” says the pigmy, “ he’s the owner of such an enor- 
mous property. That’s why he can’t be allowed to retain his 


238 MIGNON, 

aversion for the sex. If he’d only marry, they would make him 
a duke at once.” 

“ Is that so?” exclaims the fair one, opening her handsome 
brown eyes very wide. “ But why can’t they do it without, if 
they want to ?” 

“ Oh,’ answers the pigmy, in our country they never make 
an unmarried man a duke, because, you see, it’s a very serious 
business, and it would be no good making a duke for one gen* 
eration; he must have a son to succeed him.” 

“ Guess it'll make the English gals mad if he dew take back a 
wife from America,” says Miss Hutchins. 

“ I guess it will,” replies the pigmy, with perfect gravity of 
countenance. 

The following day, Maud Marian, in accordance with a reso- 
lution she has formed during the night, makes a pretext for en- 
tering into conversation with Leo. It is not long before that 
acute young lady discovers that she has been made the victim of 
a hoax; She forbears, however, to tax the pigmy with his in- 
iquity, but, determined not to be “ bested by a Britisher,” she 
tells him one or two most astonishing yarns about her own coun- 
try, which he accepts in perfect good faith, being prepared for 
anything, however extraordinary, on the other side of the At- 
lantic. Like most English people on their first visit to America, 
the only thing he positively cannot believe is that there is a sin- 
gular resemblance between the manners and customs of the well- 
bred of both countries. 

She is not long in discovering Leo’s real ailment, and comes to 
the conclusion that it is useless to waste her time and blandish- 
ments on him. He is very pleasant and courteous, smiles at her 
naive sayings, and never avoids her, but with the instinct of her 
sex, she knows that the citadel has been already taken, and is 
impregnable to assault. 

“Strikes me,” she remarks one day to Captain Clyde, “the 
complaint your friend’s sufferin’ from is liking one of our sex too 
much instead of too little.” 

“ No,” says the pigmy, putting his glass in his eye and looking 
interested. “What makes you think that ?” 

“Guess you know all about it,” she answers, giving him an 
inquisitorial look. 

“No, upon my honor! I never thought poor old Leo knew 
one woman from another.” 

“Is that so? Then I reckon you’ve been goin’ around with 
your eyes in the back of your head. He knows one so much, he 
don’t care to know nothing of all the rest. And I s’pose she don’t 
see it in the same light, for he’s that onhappy, I know some- 
times he wishes himself in kingdom com^. Why, hevn’t you 
heard him sigh, and hevn’t you seen that dull miserable look 
come over him ?” 

“ Yes: but, to tell you the truth, I put the former down to in- 
digestion, and the latter to ennui. You know we are always 
supposed to take our pleasures sadly. Here. Leo!” he cries, as 
the subject of their discussion comes within hail; “ what do you 
think Miss Hutchins says about you?” 


MIONON. 


339 


Maud Marian does not attempt to stop him; she wants con- 
firmation of her opinion. 

I cannot tell, 1 am sure,” answers Leo, in his pleasant voice. 

Nothing unkind, I will answer for it.” 

“ She says,” pursues the pigmy, deliberately, taking a critical 
survey of his friend’s face, whilst Maud Marian does the same — 
“ she says, my guileless and misunderstood Py lades, that you are 
so desperately in love with some unknown fair one that the rest 
of the sex have no charms in your eyes.” 

The crimson mounts to Leo’s throat and temples: he is utterly 
I unprepared for this attack, and is furious to find himself blush- 
ing like a schoolgirl. 

The pigmy, with ready tact, comes to his rescue. 

“ See!” he says, turning to his fair companion, his blushes 
attest his innocence. The bare thought is too much for his 
modesty. I knew you were mistaken.” 

But in his secret heart the pigmy is convinced that Maud 
Marian’s surmise was correct, and burns to ask, “ Who is she*?’* 

Poor Leo! he tries hard to be brave, but he is passing through 
a fiery ordeal. Again and again he tells himself that all is over 
between him and Olga — that he has to begin life afresh — that it 
is weak, unmanly, wrong, to go on loving her so idolatrously, 
now he knows that she can never be his — nay, that she will be 
another’s; for on this point Leo has not the faintest doubt. Ray- 
mond had written him just before he left England, “It is as 
well perhaps that you are going out of the country, for I hear it 
is settled that Olga is to be Lady Harley. When you come back, 
perhaps you will be more charitably disposed toward me than 
that night when you gave me such a tremendous wigging for 
coveting my neighbor’s wife.” 

Of counse Leo could not know that Raymond only spoke from 
a bare rumor, to suit his own purpose, and had not seen Olga 
since her return to Blankshire. The monotony of the sea-voy- 
age wearied him intensely. To the great delight of the majority 
of passengers, the sea was perfectly calm; he would have liked 
it to be rough and turbulent, in consonance with his own feel- 
ings, for contending outward forces give relief to those strug- 
gling inner ones. 

“ How tame the sea looks!” he remarks to Miss Hutchins, as 
they stand looking down at it together. “It is dreadfully dis- 
appointing to 'wake up and find it just the same day after day.” 

“ Calc’late you’re about the only person as finds it disappoint- 
ing,” returns Maud Marian, dryly. “The ocean swell's a gent 
'v\^hose acquaintance I’ve no desire on airth to make. I’ve never 
wance missed a meal this journey, and that’s more to me than 
all the grandeur of the waves and ‘ that sort of thing, you know,’ ” 
(mimicking the pigmy). 

Leo is immensely relieved when they reach New York. For 
the first time he is conscious of a pleasurable excitement which 
the novelty of everything about him inspires, there is a brisk go- 
aheadness about everybody that makes a striking contrast to the 
stolidity and comparative impassiveness of his own country- 
men. 


240 


MIGNOK 


Au revoirP'* says Maud Marian to the pigmy. Guess you’ll 
be ashore fust, anyhow; we'll have an almighty lot of traps to 
pay deuty on. Guess you’ll have to look a bit spryer here than 
you dew in the old country; you won’t have time for all your 
dandified guards’ airs in N’York.” 

And she throws him a merry smile over her shoulder as he 
joins the queue,. 


• CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A PACKET OF LETTERS. 

From Leo to Mr. Vyner. 

SoREL, Canada, Sept — , 187—. 

My dearest Father,— We have been so constantly on the 
move that I have really had no opportunity of writing you more 
than just a line or two at a time. I think I told you how we 
went from New York up the Hudson in a gigantic steamer, a 
‘ floating hotel ’ as they call it, and I must confess that Ameri' 
cans very far surpass us in the luxury and comfort with which 
they travel. Of course there are drawbacks, and one has to 
overcome one’s class prejudices, or, at all events, keep them in 
one’s pocket out of sight, and to bear as best one may the sights 
and sounds that the national throat unceasingly sends forth: still 
there is an immense deal both to admire and wonder at. I 
can’t help being amused at the naive pride of the American in his 
country, and the way in which he expects you to be struck all 
of a heap at everything you see. I suppose they know by our 
looks that w^e come straight from the British Isles, and so they 
interview us considerably, and if we don’t fall into raptures over 
everything I can see they ascribe it to sheer envy and jealousy. 
One man guessed I should find England a very one- hoss place 
after Amer’ka; he’d been there once and found it ’nation dull; 
and as for our railway traveling, it was a disgrace to a civilized 
nation; it was an incentive to murder and crime and every 
atrocity; but of course if an Englishman considered himself 
such an almighty sight better than other folk, he must incur 
those risks; for his own part, lie felt he was a man and a brother, 
and he didn’t care who he sat alongside of, as long as it wasn’t a 
darned nigger. We saw a good deal of beauty and fashion at 
West Point. The American women are remarkably handsome, 
and wonderful dressers. As for pigmy, I did not know how to get 
him away ; he fell in love with a fresh beauty every day, and 
they all seemed to take to him amazingly. I am not 
surprised, for their men are by no means equal to themselves 
in manner or attractiveness. We went afterward to New- 
port and Saratoga, and saw more beauty and more dress, and 
the pigmy fell deeper in love than ever. Keen as he is about 
sport, it was with the utmost difficulty I could get him off and 
bring him here. We went first to Quebec, and on the journey 
met a man who offered us some fishing on the Jacques Cartier 
River. I must say the kindness and civility we have met wdth 
has been something wonderful. The pigmy had lots of letters 


3nGN0K 


m 


of introduction, but has hardly presented any; there has been no 
occasion. Here a man enters into conversation with you in a 
train, or on a steamboat, and, after half an hour’s acquaintance, 
offers you all sorts of hospitality. I fancy two American stram 
gers traveling in England would have to wait a long time before 
they were offered shooting, fishing, and free quarters by any of 
our countrymen. We had splendid fishing, pulled out salmon 
as fast as we could throw a line, but the flies and mosquitos 
are something too fearful. We have tried everything — have 
smeared our faces with beastly-smelling oil, and, as a last re- 
source, the pigmy has tied up his head in h muslin bag, and 
looks like a peach on the south wall. Then we went to the Falls 
of Montmorency, which are very fine. There we got some capital 
trout, but were still persecuted by flies. Then we took steamer 
to Sorel. We live in a hut with a native Canadian, and are 
having excellent shooting — any quantity of snipe and duck; but 
the mosquitos completely prevent one's enjoying anything. 
Next week we go up the St. Lawrence to Montreal, then to 
Niagara, and thence to Chicago, where I hope to find a letter 
from you. Tell me what sort of sport you are having, and how 
you amuse yourself. I hope to hear you are having what they 
call here ‘ a good time,’ and that you don’t miss me a bit. Kind- 
est remembrances to everybody. 

Ever, my dearest father, 

“ Your affectionate son, 

“ liio.” 

From Mr, Vyner to Leo. 

Thyrstan Hall. Oct. — , 187 —. 

“ My dear Leo, — I need not tell you how glad I am to get 
your letters. I am half disposed to envy you your sport, though 
the flies, as 3^011 describe them, must be plaguey troublesome. 
Being in English dominion, and catching salmon and trout, 
makes me feel, although there’s so much water between us, as 
if 3^ou were still in civilized parts. I only wish you’d make up 
your mind to stop there, and give up Mexico and the San Fran- 
cisco journey. By all accounts you are liaviiig capital sport; 
and what more can you want ? What's the use of running into 
danger ? I read in a paper the other day that some of those in- 
fernal Indians had caught two white men and tortured and 
scalped them. However, if it pleases the Almighty to let you 
make a fool of yourself, and lose your life without doing an.y 
good by it. I’ve no more to sslj. Please God, you may come 
back; and, if you do, I hope and trust you’ll come back the man 
you used to be some fifteen months ago. Make up your mind 
that things are best as they are, as I am quite sure they are, and 
that if you had had your own way you’d be wishing to Heaven 
by this time you hadn’t. Talking of that, a letter came for you 
yesterday, in a female hand, bearing the Blankshire postmark: 
so I suppose that Jezebel of a woman can’t let you alone. I was 
glad, however, to see by her sending it here, that j^ou were 
not corresponding with her; and if you take my advice 
you’ll throw it into the fire unopened. I had a good 


m 


MiamN. 


mind to do it myself; however, I hate anything that isn’t fair 
play, and I don’t suppose a straightforward man like my- 
self is any match for this middle-aged flame of yours— 5/e.s’s her. 
You know what I mean. There, there! I’m only writing my- 
self into a rage, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings. So take 
the cursed thing and blubber over it, and kiss it. and— however, 
there’s an end of it. Hartopp and Everett have been with me; 
we got fifty brace on the 1st, thirty the 2d, and twenty-five the 
3d, besides any quantity of ground game and a few partridges. 
The latter are very wild. The bag for the three days was four 
hundred head — quite enough, to my thinking, for a sportsman. 
I hate battues, I asked that snob Jameson, very much against 
the grain, because he was civil to you; but he gave me to under- 
stand my shooting wasn’t good enough for him. He asked me to 
a big day next week — expects at least a thousand head; but I told 
him that if my shooting was too little for him, his was too much 
for me. I need not say I miss you ; but I’m getting on very well, 
considering, and have actually promised to pay three visits next 
month — wonderful for me. Hales is very anxious in her in- 
quiries after you. Whenever the post brings a letter from you, 
she comes and fusses about and pretends to dust the things; so 
yesterday I had to ask her whether she’d leave me in peace to 
read your letter, or whether she’d like to have it first. She 
bounced out of the room; so, thank goodness, I got rid of her. 
Hang me if I don’t think the old fool’s in love with you; you 
seem irresistible in the eyes of middle-aged females. Well, I’ve 
got to the end of my paper, and, as you know, I’m not much of 
a hand at letter- wud ting. Let me hear from you as often as you 
can manage it, and believe me, my dear Leo, your affectionate 
father, Ralph Vyner. 

“ P. S,— Don’t be annoyed at anything in my letter. I must 
have my say, you know, and I can’t rewrite.” 

This is Mr. Vyner’s letter, and the priceless document he in- 
closes runs as follows; 

“The Manor House, Oct. — , 187—. 

*‘My dear Leo,— N early three months since I saw you, and 
all this time not a line. Are you angry with me, or have you 
forgotten me ? Don’t you know what an interest I take in" all 
your plans and movements, how heartily I sympathize with your 
ideas, and how much I expect of and for your future? Indeed, 
it is not kind of you to keep this long silence. I am only just 
going to write you a little note, that I may have a fourfold re- 
turn, for I cannot think of any news to tell you that you would 
care to hear. All the horses and dogs that you used to take an 
interest in are in a flourishing state. Truscott asked after you 
the other day, and when I told him of your proposed journey 
around the world he looked blank, and said he hoped you would 
come back, but his tone intimated that he thought it more than 
doubtful, and I know in his own mind he expects you will share 
the fate of Captain Cook. Joking apart, my dear Leo, I hope 
you will take care of yourself and not run into needless danger; 
there are other people, remember, besides your father, who can- 


mONON. 


243 


not afford to lose you. There is very little Blankshire news to 
tell. Ma chere and I have entertained tlie county and been en- 
tertained in return. Our lovely neighbor. Lady Bergholt, is at 
the Court and immensely admired. She has had a twin brother 
staying with her, a charming young fellow, almost too pretty 
for a man, but not at all effeminate in his ways and manners. I 
do not see very much of Raymond; his poor mother is as great 
an invalid as ever. 

“ Ma chere and I have some thought of wintering in Rome; 
life is rather a difficult problem for two desolate women with no 
ties and no particular vocation; still, it is only talk at present. 
And when we have yawned ourselves through the winter, there 
is only the same routine of the London season to go through 
again, which I confess is beginning to pall upon me. I am half 
minded to go round the world myself — only I am rather helpless, 
and fond of comfort, and, when 1 have been away from England 
two months, invariably get homesick. I must send this letter 
to Thyrstan to be forwarded, for, through your unkind neglect 
of me, I have not the least idea where to address this. Ma chere 
unites with me in very kindest regards, and believe me, dear 
Leo, Always most sincerely yours, 

“ Olga Stratheden.” 

“ Tell me what you think of ximerican women. 1 have met 
some very handsome ones in Paris.” 

Captain Clyde to Mr, Vyner, 

“ CiTAPiEAu’s Hotel, Denver, Oct. — , 187—. 

‘‘ Dear Mr. Vyner. — Don’t be alarmed at seeing my cabalistic 
signs instead of Leo’s manly hand; he is all right, but strained 
his wrist giving the most richly deserved punishment I ever saw 
to a brute who was maltreating a mule, and so can’t liold a pen 
at present with his usual ease and elegance. Our gentleman 
whii)ped out his revolver, but we are pretty handy with those 
playthings by now, and as there were two of us, and we were 
both ready for him, he put it away again, after treating us to a 
little language that would have made every separate hair of a 
bargee's head stand on end. I have been practicing shooting 
through my trousers- pocket, wdiich is a handy thing to be able 
to do in this part of the world, and, though a destructive amuse ^ 
ment, it may be useful, and one has generall}" to pay for a new 
accomplishment. 

We had tremendous luck last week, and both got a wapiti on 
Laramie Plains. We were so delighted that I think we shed 
tears of joy. There seems some doubt about our coming across 
a ‘grizzly,’ but we are promised any quantity of black bears; in- 
deed, I think of writing home and offering to undertake the 
contract for our men’s bearskins for next year, only it might be 
a little premature. Did Leo tell you about our buffalo-hunt at 
Fort Hayes ? One of the party had a shocking bit of luck. His 
horse was galloping bravely along by the side of the infuriated 
buffalo, he fired; down went his horse and shot my friend half a 
mile off. We were very much astonished when he got up and 


244 


MIQNOK 


his horse did not; in the excitement he had actually shot the 
poor brute dead. We are told this not unfrequently happens. 
Thank Heaven, Leo and I each got our bull instead of our friend’s 
cattle; but, I must say, buffalo-hunting is an overrated amuse- 
ment. So far our travels have been a tremendous success. I 
have enjoyed myself immensely, and Leo is getting back to his 
old cheery form. I have a safe, comfortable feeling in going 
about with him, as his handsome proportions seem to inspire a 
certain amount of respect. 

“We haven’t come across any Indians at present, though we 
were treated to some cheerful and inspiriting stories about them 
at the fort. We only found a small party there, as most of the 
officers and men were out scouting, which, being interpreted, 
means looking after Indians. It seems that some little time ago 
the officers gave some ladies a picnic in Paradise Valley, and un- 
intentionally took them a good deal nearer those blessed regions 
than they had any intention of. About the middle of the day 
the men shouldered their rifles and went in pursuit of something 
upon which to gratify the destructive instincts of the sex, whilst 
the amiable fair ones occupied themselves in preparing a repast. 
(I wonder how that sort of picnic would be appreciated by our 
own charming country- w’omen!) The bold hunters had not got 
very far, when they had the agreeable excitement of beholding 
in the distance a hundred or so Indians, attended by their fight- 
ing squaws. With stealthy haste, our friends crept back to the 
trees where they had left their owm (non-fighting) squaw’s, and, 
without waiting for explanation, or dinner, or anything else, 
they carried off the wondering fair, and ‘ I can tell yew, sir,’ 
said our gallant historian, ' we went on our marrow-bones and 
thanked the Almighty wdien we got ’em safe inside the fort.’ 

“However, the line of country we are going, w^e don’t expect 
to meet any of the copper-colored gentry, and, as w^e travel never 
less than a party of live or six, they are not likely to molest 
us. 

“ I envy Leo his long tour. I, hapless victim to my patriot- 
ism, have to be home in the middle of December. What a lion I 
shall be when I get back! — wdiat yarns I shall spin! — one can al- 
ways do that better wdthout one’s traveling companions. I have 
been getting up all the stories of great exploits done out here, and I 
can assure you some of them are calculated to make people ask, 
‘ How is that for high ?’ (an expression much in vogue here), and 
I intend to make myself the hero of them all. Leo’s best love — 
he will write in a day or two — and believe me 

“ Yours very truly, Hercules Clyde.” 

“ Really and truly, Leo’s hurt is not w^orth mentioning. He 
makes me add this P. S. lest you should be uneasy.” 

Leo to Mr, Vyner, 

“Santa Fe, Oct. — , 187—, 

“ My dearest Father,— O ur traveling has been so rough and 
continuous lately that I could not very well write, and in these 
parts the post goes but seldom, and is, I am afraid, not very 
much to be relied on. I was awTully glad to get your letter cU 


MIQNON, 


^45 


Taos: home news in these wild parts is more welcome than 1 
can tell you. About a fortnight ago we left Manitou for Pueblo 
fa distance of forty-five miles), in a light wagon drawn by two 
mules hired with a driver at Denver. The road was good, though 
the country looked like a desert, and you would be surprised how 
the cattle seem to thrive on the coarse herbage. We passed sev- 
eral teams, driven by Mexicans (as villainous-looking a lot as I 
ever came across). We reached Pueblo in the afternoon, and 
liad a very fair dinner of antelope, copiously garnished with 
Mexican onions. Next day we crossed the Arkansas, and drove 

to D ’s farm, the finest in that part of the country. The 

house is only one story high, situate in the midst of eight hun- 
dred acres of Indian corn and wheat. Most of the land is arti- 
ficially irrigated— a system. I think, which might be adopted 
with advantage in many parts of England. They gave us a 
warm welcome, and entertained us sumptuously on young bear, 
corn, onions, beet-rqot, and milk. After dinner we walked up 
a beautiful canon alongside a stream, across which we counted 
lots of beaver-dams. Our old enemies the musquitos are as bad 
as ever. 

Next day we went up the mountains to shoot. Pigmy got a 
bear, which he threatens to take home and have made into a bear- 
skin for his own head, and I got a stag and a fawn. The heat was 
intense, and we suffered tortures from thirst. Poor pigmy had 
frightful pains in his chest, caused by the rarity of the air; but 
he is tremendously plucky, and never complains. We continued 
to ascend the Rocky Mountains, and eventually got to the top 
by the Sangre de Cristo pass. Then we gradually descended to 
Fort Garland, and on our way stopped to catch a few trout, and 
pigmy bagged ten teal. The officers at the fort were very civil, 
and put us up, and the commandant gave us a capital dinner. 
Of course we heard lots of stories about Indians; but I don’t 
think we have anything to fear. We go about w^ell armed, in 
case of accidents. 

Next morning, after breakfast, we drove seventeen miles along 
a very good road to San Luis, a wonderful place for wild fowl in 
the winter. We got a good bag of duck and teal. Here we were 
told it was the proper tiling to give a bailor fandango to the 
natives in their assembly rooms, every Mexican village has a 
place set apart for dancing. About a hundred accepted our in- 
vitation. and I can't say vve were proud of our guests when they 
arrived. 

*' The men were beastly dirty and disreputable, and the women 
only a shade better, only two or three were good-looking. You 
should have seen pigmy doing the iiolite. and endeavoring to 
make himself understood and to hold his nose at the same time. 
Some mammas of thirteen brought their babies. There was only 
one kind of dance, as far as I could see, which appeared to par- 
take of the nature of a religious ceremony, so solemnly was it 
conducted, and in perfect silence. We had drink going all the 
evening, and supper at eleven. Pigmy led in the prettiest girl, 
but she was very shy, and we heard afterward that it was not 
the thing for a Mexican young lady to converse freely with the 


MIONON. 


other sex. After supper wc distributed cigarettes and sweet- 
meats, which the ladies thorougldy appreciated, and soon after 
that tlie company dispersed, and we had the satisfaction of hear- 
ing that our fandango had been quite a success. Do you know, 
my dear old dad, I can’t help thinking it must bo a good thing 
for one to see phases of life utterly different from what one has 
seen or imagined before ? though I must confess that nearly 
everything 1 have seen at present has only tended to make me 
believe more firmly in dear old England. I am as thorough a 
Britisher as ever. 

We left next morning at ten, and drove through a good graz- 
ing country well supplied with water. On our way to Costilla 
we got thirteen teal. This is a regular Mexican town, all the 
houses are adobe, and only one story liigh, wdth flat roofs on 
wliich the natives sun themselves and smoke their cigarettes. 
Outside the houses, in sw^eet confusion, you see children, pigs, 
sheep, goats, poultry, and dogs of all sizes and colors wandering 
about. 1 liate the Mexicans, the}' are, I should imagine, 
the cruelest and laziest wretches on the face cff the earth 
We killed quantities of duck, rabbits, and jack rabbits, 
and 1 (’aught some big trout in the Rio Orande with a red- 
spoon bait; tliey Avouldn't look at anything else-, J got a 
wolf, and pigmy a couple of antelope. Almost every other day 
is a saint’s day or holiday with these lazy brutes One day it 
had poured in torrents, and on my return to the towm I met a 
procession with crosses, cruciflxes, and flags. In the center w*as 
a box carried by two men, like a sedan-chair, containing an 
image of Christ. This had been hired from the priest for the 
day for tw'enty-flve dollars, and w’as carried about the streets, 
ac(^oinpanied by ringing of bells and firing old guns, jn order to 
stop the rain. When the natives cannot aflonl so long a price, 
they hire one of the Virgin for eight dollars. 

“From Costilla w'e w’ent on fifty miles to Taos, where I got 
your letter and pigmy found a budget from his people. Taos is 
one of the oldest towns in New Mexico. We visited the village 
of tlie Pueblo Indians: tliey have a ‘ reservation ’ in a beautiful 
valley on a stream between two mountains These Indians are 
at peace now with the wdiites, and are capital farmers. They own 
large herds of cattle, sheep, goats, and excellent ponies. The 
village consists of two very large adobe buildings from four to five 
stories high, one on each side of tlie stream. There are no doors 
on the ground-floor, but you ascend from the ground to tlie top 
of the first story by a ladder, and so on to the top. To get in- 
side you descend a ladder through a hole on the flat roof into a 
room, and so on downi to the ground-floor. The rooms are small 
The inmates squat about on buffalo robes, eat wild plums, and 
smoke cigarettes. Bows and arrows, wdth w'hich they kill game, 
hang on the w'alls, with knives anci rusty fire-arms. The old 
chief was very civil, particularly after we had given him whisky. 
The men wear their hair long, and the squaw's short, rather re- 
versing the order of things. They profess to be Roman Catho- 
lics; but we hear on very good authority that they practice snake- 
worship in private in egg-shaped rooms underground. No 


MIONON, 


247 


stranger is admitted or allowed to know where these subter- 
ranean temples are. Rattlesnakes are caught and kept as divini- 
ties. 

We came from Taos here. The roads were dreadful, through 
a wretched country, with wretched-looking people. The women 
cover their faces with an old shawl. We were thankful when 
we aiTived at the Exchange Hotel, from which I am now 
writing. It is most indifferent, but better than we have been ac- 
customed to lately. 

“ I hope I haven’t bored you with this tremendous epistle, 
which I am afraid reads rather like a chapter out of a very dry 
book of travels. I can’t tell you how I look forward to your 
letters, and how more than ever dear home and England seem to 
me at this distance. My kindest remembrances to every man, 
woman, child, horse, and dog at Thyrstan, and with my most 
affectionate love to yourself, always, my dear father, 

Your devoted son, Leo.” 

Raymond L'Estrange to Leo Vyner. 

“L’Estrange Hall, Nov. 187—. 

“ My Dear Leo,— When you receive this I shall be on my 
way to join you. I want to get away from this hateful place so 
far that I cannot even hear of it. A most awful thing has hap- 
pened: I can’t write about it: the very thought gives me the 
horrors. Suffice it to say. Lady Bergholt has met with a most 
appalling accident: no one knows yet if she will live; in any case 
she must be disfigured for life. I was there when it happened, 
and I would not go through it again for anything that mortal 
man could offer me. I only wonder I have kept my reason. As 
it is, my head feels very bad, and my nerves are all to pieces. 
So I am going to start on your track with all the speed I can, 
after I get back from Paris, where I go to-night to try and get 
rid of the horrors. Let me know at the Brevoort House, as soon 
as you possibly can, where and how to join you. 1 don’t mind 
any amount of hardship): I only want to get away from this aC' 
cursed place. Would to God I had gone with you, as you 
wanted me! Yours, Raymond.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Let us rise up part: she will not know, 

Let us go seaward as the great winds go. 

Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here? 

There is no help, for all these things are so, 

And all the world is bitter as a tear. 

And how these things are, though ye strove to show, 

She would not know.’^ 

A Leave-Taking, 

Poor Mignon! Mignon, who but so short a time ago was 
among the fairest of women— on whom no eye could rest with- 
out acknowledging, however grudgingly, her wondrous beauty. 
And in a moment this exquisite work of nature was changed 
into a loathly and horrid tiling, from which men would turn 


S48 


MIGNOK 


and shrink. The gift in which she has ti’iumphed is further 
from her than from many a woman born unlovely, ungracious: 
at least, men do not turn shuddering from them. It is a royal 
gift, beauty, and Mignon, like many another richly dowered 
godchild of nature, had worn it with exultant pride, such pride 
as a man may feel upon whose breast gleams the order that his 
sovereign’s hand has placed there. She made no boast of it, but 
it was as much a matter of course with her to admit its possession, 
as for the man on whom the proud insignia shines. For the poor, 
the plain, the insignificant, she had a kind of contemptuous pity: 
she was to them what a delicately-fashioned, exquisitely-painted 
vase is to a common delf mug. All the extravagant, selfish 
claims she has made on others have been made on the sheer, sole 
strength of her loveliness: her feeling has always been, ‘‘I am 
beautiful, and you must worship me, must give up to me,” She 
has been so keenly conscious of her own individuality as to be 
unable thoroughly to’ enter into, or even recognize, the individ- 
uality of others. " Intensely alive to all that hurt or disturbed 
herself, she has been almost indifferent to the pain she has given 
others. She has not been sympathetic, nor gifted with fine feel- 
ings. She has not known the pain that a tender heart can feel 
for the woes of others, still less its gladness for others’ joy. 

And now, what will she do? She is like a Sybarite suddenly 
made destitute; she is like a mariner shipwrecked on a barren 
rock; she is like one robbed of a love that was more than life. 
How will she — how can she bear it? but God is merciful; He 
'tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” as Sterne (not David, 
nor Solomon, nor Job, as people will have it) says. Mignon re- 
mains profoundly unconscious of the awful fate that has over- 
taken her. Even as the da^-s and weeks go on, as the ghastly 
wounds close into long seams, she knows nothing of her woe. 
Her soul is away on a far journey ; they cannot tell if it will 
ever return. The poor body writhes, and turns, and moans, 
sometimes as if it suffered, sometimes it is quiet and still; if the 
eyes unclose there is no meaning nor recognition in them. 

“It is better so,’' says Olga to the heart-stricken imsband, 
wdth tears of sympathy m her kind, brown eyes. “ If we can 
only keep her from knowing w^hat has happened until ” 

But her voice dies aw^ay, for she know^s that exquisite beauty 
has fled forever. Olga is looking pale and worn; she has passed 
through a terrible ordeal. With her intense sensitiveness, her 
highly-strung nerves, the days she has spent in this terrible sick- 
room have been fraught with real suffering to her; but she has 
never thought of herself, never spared herself: if Mignon had 
been her own sister she could have done no more. And there 
had been the harder task still of soothing the heart-broken 
husband, of trying to pour consolation that was not unreal 
nor stereotyped into his despairing heart, of choosing the time 
to speak and the time to forbear, \vhich reouires the finest tact 
of all. 

A professional nurse had been sent for at once; but, invaluable 
and untiring jh these devoted women are, a sick chamber is sad in 
deed wdiere the head nurse is not one who gives her services for 


MIGNON, 


349 

love’s sake, one who has that refined intuition of the patient’s 
w'-ants that no gold can buy. And this was Olga’s task. Lady 
Bergholt could not be moved for some time from the shabby’* 
little roadside inn, but Olga had gradually transformed the poor 
mean room into something unlike itself. Every comfort was at 
hand. Her own kitchen-maid came daily to prepare what the 
invalid was able to take. Frequently, when the poor sufferer 
was restless. Olga remained by her bedside all night. 

And Sir Tristram — how fared it with him ? He had bought 
this gem with all that he had, and now, after these thirteen 
little months’ possession, months that have lacked much of the 
pride and glory he had looked for, his prize is flung at his feet, 
flawed, ruined, worthless. No man will covet it of him hence- 
forth forever; no envious murmurs, no loud- whispered admira- 
tion, will fall on his ears as she hangs on his proud arm. Does 
he feel chafed and angry, as a man might who had made a bar- 
gain and flnds himself defrauded ?— does he feel a wish to be 
quit of this fearful burden, such as Raymond had felt that day 
of horror when he kept his ghastly vigil? No I God wot! .Every 
selfish feeling that a passion less noble might dictate is swal- 
lowed up in his great love of her, in his great anguish for her 
sake. She is no less dear to him because tlie poor mouth, that 
was so lovely in its rippling child-like laughter, is torn and dis- 
torted, and the little teeth, that gleamed like pearls, broken or 
missing— because the cream- white skin is rent and gashed, and 
the tiny ear almost torn away; nay, rather more dear. Because 
love, true love, has its best joy in giving; because heretofore, in 
the plenitude of her youth and beauty, she wanted nothing of 
him, and now she will want everything— all his tenderness, all 
his care, all his vratchfulness to shield her from pain, the pain 
of feeling herself pitied and neglected — all that he can lavish 
upon her to atone, if may be, in a little nieasui:e for all she has 
lost. 

As he sits watching her day and night all his heart goes out 
in love and pity to her, and his thoughts turn ever upon how he 
shall lighten the load that he shudderingly knows will be so 
awful for her to bear. At first he has been so glad of her uncon- 
sciousness, has ardently desired that she shall not know of her 
terrible calamity until time has softened the worst of the dis- 
figurement; but now he begins to long passionately for her eyes 
to open in recognition of him; his heart and voice thirst to tell 
her that she is dearer to him than in the fairest days of her beauty. 
But it is not to be. The lagging hours crawl by — days when the 
sun shines out cheerily, and tries by a sudden 'warmth to make 
believe he is not so very far off; days when the earth is bound 
in the iron grip of frost and ice, and there are no scarlet-coated 
riders to make Sir Tristram’s heart still heavier within him. 

At last it is decreed that Lady Bergholt may be moved, and 
she is carried back through the gates of her park, whence she is- 
sued last so lovely and willful. Oh, if we knew what life had in 
store for us, how could any of us bear to live! Blest ignorance 
of the future, more blest even than the waters of Lethe, of which 
time gives our souls to drink! 


250 


MIONOK 


Mary Carlyle has been summoned from Italy. She is at Berg- 
holt, and has lieart-brokenly taken up her post as nurse. Yet 
Olga is often here; at first scarcely a day passes that she does 
not come to see how it fares with this broken flower whom she 
has nursed so tenderly. And between her and Mary there 
springs up a warm regard. Mignon can no longer be said to be 
unconscious, but she is possessed by a dull, unalterable apathy. 
Nothing can rouse her; she eats and sleeps, and even walks, but 
only as though she were an automaton, no ray of intelligence 
lights up her blue eyes or kindles a smile in her pale cheeks. The 
wounds have healed up wonderfully; though it is impossible she 
can ever be beautiful again, it is hoped that Time and mechan- 
ical art may soften the distortion that now disfigures her. One 
side of her face is as lovely as ever, perfectly unscathed, but the 
other is drawn up at the mouth and down at the eye, and deeply 
seamed across the cheek to where the iron nearly cleft the ear in 
two. As the months go by, they try to rouse her; they speak of 
things that used to interest her keenly in bygone days; they 
even talk of her accident in her hearing; all in vain. At last 
they bring Gerry to see her — Gerry, who, for his own sake, has 
been kept aw^ay till now. They have prepared him to see the 
change in his lovely sister, and the poor lad has primed himself 
bravely to go through the ordeal, but his heart beats and his 
knees knock together as he puts his hand on the door. He goes 
falteringly toward her, sits on the sofa beside her, with the 
still beautiful side toward him, throws his arms around her, 
crying: 

“ Oh, my darling Yonni^! don’t you know me?” 

For the first time a faint ray of light comes into her dull eyes, 
and she mutters inarticulately, “ Gerry!” and subsides again 
into her apathy. 

It is too much for the poor lad, the sight of the piteous, dis- 
figured face, the vacant indifference, and he rushes from the 
room, breaking into great choking sobs the while he goes. Sir 
Tristram, who has been waiting outside, takes him tenderly by 
the arm and leads him away, and Gerry buries his face in his 
hands and cries like a woman. 

When the doctor pays his daily visit, he augurs very favorably 
; from his patient’s momentary recognition of her brother. “ It 
’ is a beginning,” he says, cheerfully, and Sir Tristram feels hap- 
pier than he has done since the accident. Poor Gerry is so 
grieved and distressed, they think it better to urge him to leave 
Bergholt, and the poor lad goes away with the heaviest heart he 
has ever carried in his life. Mignon takes no notice of him 
when he bids her good-bye. Sir Tristram has been nourishing 
a painful idea in his breast. One day he plucks up courage 
to impart it to Mary. But as he speaks the color deepens in his 
face, and he looks away from her. 

“ I want 5"ou,” he says in a low voice, “ to mention Raymond’s 
name before her; it might waken some memory in her brain. 

And Mary, without any comment, any gesture of surprise or 
disapprobation, complies. 

“Raymond has gone abroad,” she says, taking her sister 


MIGNON. 


251 


gently by the hand. Twice she repeats the words, but no faint- 
est ray of intelligence lights up the clouded blue eyes. When 
Mary confides the ill success of the experiment to Sir Tristram, he 
knows not whether to be grieved or glad; he is willing to pay 
almost any price to bring back her wandering soul. Before set- 
ting out on his journey, Raymond wrote the following letter to 
the husband whom he no longer desired to wrong: 

“ Dear Sir Ttistram, — 1 have hardly courage to address you, 
knowing, as I do, that the very thought of me can only bring 
pain and abhorence to your mind. In justice to myself I wish 
to tell you that it was not through any persuasion of mine that 
Lady fergholt followed the hounds on the day of the accident, 
although I was aware of her intention. I hardly know how to 
say what is in my mind. I implore your forgiveness for any 
pain I may have caused you in days gone by tln'ough my impru- 
dent admiration for Lady Bergholt, and I wish to add, uncalled 
for though it may seem at the present moment, that there was 
nothing in our intercourse that need have caused you uneasi- 
ness. Lady Bergholt was quite indifferent to me, and only 
amused herself at my expense.” 

It is with pleasure Raymond pens these lines, that would have 
humiliated him so bitterly a few days since; he cherishes the 
idea eagerly that the life which it was once his ardent desire to 
make one with his, has no claim upon him; he realizes now with 
some faint sense of shame that it was not the woman’s self that 
had roused his passion, but her loveliness. The passion is gone, 
only a shrinking pity remains, a desire to put the wide seas be- 
tween him and her whom he had sworn in his madness he could 
not live without. 

The letter gave a certain degree of comfort to Sir Tristram. 
He believed it; though now if the most damning evidence had 
been brought to him of his wife’s guilt, it would not have less- 
ened by one whit his tenderness and care for her^ in sore 
need. He did not answer it — no answer was required — but he 
felt less bitter in his heart against Raymond than he had done be- 
fore. 

In his thoughtful care. Sir Tristram has caused every mirror 
to be removed from Mignon’s bedroom and boudoir; he wanted 
to conceal from her as long as possible the loss of her beauty; 
but alas! there was no need for all these precautions: beauty aiid 
ugliness are all alike to those poor vacant eyes. But after Ger- 
ry’s visit the soul seems faintly to stir at times in its prison; now 
and again, although she keeps utter silence, a faint light dawns 
in her face, and some object in the room will seem to fix her at- 
tention. At these times her husband will come and sit beside 
her, holding her hand, and lavishing endearing words upon her. 
But they return to him barren as though he poured his tender- 
ness out to a statue or to some dead woman. 

For two or three days, Mary has remarked an increasing in- 
telligence in Mignon’s eyes, but to all attempts to attract or di- 
rect her attention she has remained impassive. Her eyes 
wander round the walls of tlie room; occasionally she puts 


252 


MIGNON. 


her hand to her head. One day, to Mary’s surprise, she rises un- 
assisted from the sofa, and makes for the door. 

‘‘ What is it, my darling?” cries Mary, springing up. What 
can I do for you ?” 

But Mignon continues in silence to grope her way like a blind 
person to the door. Her sister opens it, and she goes out, and 
tow^ard the staircase. She does not resist Mary, who holds her 
by the arm; but she goes slowly down the stairs to the drawing- 
room. Arrived there, she makes straight for the large pier- 
glass, and stops resolutely in front of it. Just one flash of in- 
telligence in her eyes, one movement of her hand to her scarred 
face, and then the old vacuous expression returns; she suffers 
herself to be led to a chair, and for that day takes no more 
notice of anything. When the doctor is told of this, he advises 
them to put looking-glasses in her room, and not to check her if 
she wishes to look at her reflection in them. 

“ It may do more than anything to bring back her senses,” he 
says. And they obey iiim. For a day or two, Mignon does not 
seem to remark the replaced mirrors; then she suddenly takes her 
place in front of one, and stares at it until some one gently leads 
her away. 

The sight does not appear to produce any effect upon her, 
though she invariably puts her fingers up and down the scarred 
side of her cheek, and touches her mouth where the teeth are gone. 
The next day, when Olga is there, she goes to the glass and mut- 
ters some word inarticulately, Olga strains her ears to catch the 
sound. Again Mignon mutters. Olga fancies the word is Ray- 
mond. 

“ Did you say Raymond, dear?” she asks, softly, taking her 
hand. 

Again Mignon says, more distinctly this time: 

“Raymond!” 

But they can elicit nothing further from her, and presently she 
seem© to lose the idea and subsides into her usual Vacancy . Each 
day after this her intelligence takes a step toward returning, and 
it is evident to those who watch her that her mind is dimly try- 
ing to grasp some thought or memory. That it is connected 
with the change in her appearance is'also a certainty, for she 
constantly surveys herself in the glass, and every day the trou- 
ble in her face deepens. One afternoon, Sir Tristram comes as 
usual to visit her. Mary has gone for her accustomed stroll in 
the grounds, and husband and wife are alone together. One 
might think there was scant comfort or pleasure for Sir Tristram 
in having Mignon all to himself, but it does please him, since in 
spite of her dumbness and her shattered beauty, he loves her no 
less tenderly than w-hen he was her lover, and, as he holds her 
passive hand in his, his thoughts look ever toward a future when 
it shall be permitted him to build up a new life for her, and a 
happiness that shall not depend upon the caprice of men's admira - 
tion. He feels, as he has never felt before, that she is his, his 
entirely, utterly: the superiority that her youth and loveliness 
gave her over him, in Jiis eyes, is gone, and they are equal. 

Twjligiit has crept ori; the room would be dark but for the 


MIONON. 


25 ^ 

cheery blaze of the logs that throw their warm light on every 
object, even to the furthest corners. Sir Tristram is seated on 
the sofa beside Mignon; his-eyesare fixed upon the glowing logs, 
and his thoughts are far away upon the oft*worn track of what 
he will do for her when she gets well. Suddenly her hand 
moves, he hears an inarticulate sound, and, turning toward her, 
sees her eyes fixed on him in perfect consciousness, sees her poor 
mouth quiver, tears roll down her cheeks, hears the sound of a 
broken sob. In a moment his arms are around her, her head is 
pillowed on his breast, and he is pouring forth all the dear and 
tender words of love’s vocabulary upon her. 

She is trying to speak; he bends an eager ear to catch the 
sounds his ears have so lofig thirsted for. At first they are 
scarcely intelligible, but she repeats them again and again: 

“ I am hideous, horrible; no one will ever care for me again.” 

“ Oh, my darling,” he cries, joyfully, “ I love you, love you 
tenfold if you care to have my love. You are as dear and 
sweet to me as ever. I did not love you only for your beauty. 
And in time ” (soothingly) ‘‘ we shall be able to bring a great deal 
of it back.” 

I am too horrible,” she mutters, again, and tries to cover her 
poor scarred cheek with both her hands. But gently he takes 
them in his, and with unutterable tenderness kisses the scars, 
that have no horror, no repulsion for liim, so great and perfect 
is his love. 

“ You are not horrible to me, my own love,” he says, in his 
deep, kind voice, and again he kisses her. 

“ Raymond,” she murmurs. 

He is smitten with a sudden chill: involuntarily his shielding 
arms relax; he presses his lips tight in dumb pain. Oh, God I is 
the first thought of her returning reason indeed for that other ? 
He waits in silent pain for her next words. 

‘‘ He^said so; he said so,” she reiterates, again and again. 

“ What did he say, darling?” asks her husband, in a low voice, 
trying to stifie his bitter pain. 

Mignon makes an effort to bring out her words, but they are 
almost inarticulate. Sir Tristram bends his ear close to catch 
them. 

‘‘ He said,” she mutters, “ that if I had the smallpox, or were 
crushed in a railway accident, no one would ever care for me 
again.” 

“ Di 1 he?” cries Sir Tristram, taking again that dear burden 
into his faithful arms. “ Oh, my darling, I think he did not 
know what true love meant.” 

And when Mary conies in he goes away to his room, and rev- 
erently and devoutly upon his knees thanks God for what seems 
to him the greatest blessing and happiness that has ever been 
granted to him. For now he no longer doubts that his darling’s 
reason will return to her. 


m 


MIGHON. 


CHAPTER XX.* 

“ An accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 

Right to the heart and brain, though undescried, 

Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Through all the outworks of suspicious pride.” 

Tennyson, 

It is an April day — a weeping, smiling day— a day whose tears 
are sudden, passionate, and quickly over as a child’s, whose 
smiles are too intensely bright and sweet to last; a day especially 
anathematized by coachmen, for its bonny sunshine tempts their 
masters and mistresses out, and its merciless showers drench cat- 
tle and harness through and through. Their own clothes and 
hats they don’t so much mind about, their fortitude being in- 
creased by the secret knowledge of their employers’ chagrin. 
Among the candidates to be the eighth wonder of the world I 
would offer a place to the coachman who voluntarily put on an 
old hat when the weatlier was unsettled, or a footman who un- 
furled the carriage umbrella as soon as the first drops of rain 
began to descend, 

Mrs. Stratheden, prescient of coming storm, although Phoebus 
looks at this moment as if he was determined to spend the rest 
of the day with Mother Earth, has ordered the victoria with one 
horse. She is going to pay a visit of congratulation to Kitty on 
no less important an occasion than the birth of a son and heir to 
the house of Clover. About a month has elapsed since the 
events of the last chapter, and Master Clover is nearly three 
weeks old. Olga finds her little ladyship sitting up in state, 
looking perfectly lovel3^ Her face is like a blush rose; she is 
appareled in velvet the color of the sky, set off wdth much fine 
lace; on her golden curls is perched a dainty confection from 
some eminent artist. (One really cannot give the same name to 
this ethereal production and the crochet pincushion cover with 
which modern housemaids keep up the good old tradition of 
caps.) By lier side, on the sofa, snoozes a pug, black-faced as 
even Diabolus is painted, while from a basket on her right peers 
a face no less sw^art, relieved by a bilious eyeball. They know^ 
Olga, and hold her in much esteem; therefore, they do not greet 
her wdth that deafening uproar, that setting of every separate 
hair on end, with which it is the custom of well-bred pugs to re- 
ceive visitors at their house. Instead, they assume a groveling 
and servile demeanor as they wriggle toward her, uncurling for 
an Instant their crisp tails to give them a friendly w^ag. 

“ What!” laughs Olga, after she has kissed their mistress and 
addressed a few words to them in dog-language which they un- 
derstand perfectly; ‘‘Strephon and Chloe still in possession! 
Pray, where is the baby ?” 

“ Poor darlings!” answers Kitty, looking affectionately at the 
wistful black faces which are waiting anxiously to hear w^hat is 
going to be said about them; “you don’t think ’ (reproachfully) 


MIGNON. 


255 


‘Hliat I would forsake them for a rival— even for a baby of my 
own. Could missis be so hard-hearted?” she says, apostrophiz- 
ing them; and they roll their eyes and loll their tongues pathetic- 
ally, and answer, as plainly as they can speak, ‘‘ No, never.” 

“ Nurse will bring baby directly,” says the young mamma, 
with an important air. “Now, remember, my dear, I am not 
one of the foolish mothers wlie expect every one to go into rapt- 
ures over their children. The only thing 1 would rather you did 
not say ” (with merry, twinkling eyes) “is that he is like Jo. 
His mother says baby is the image of what Jo was in his in- 
fancy; and she seems to think I ought to take it as a compli- 
ment.” 

“ She is delighted with her grandson, of course,” says Olga. 

“Delighted is no name for it, my dear. But you see, excellent 
as she is, I am not equal to dear mamma and reminiscences of 
Jo’s teething all day long, so I have to send baby away when I 
wish to dispense with his grandmamma’s company. And then she 
hates these poor darlings so” (pulling Strephon’s ears), “and 
calls them beasts of dogs, tliat no Christian mother blessed with 
a precious baby of her own ought to look at.” 

Chloe, sitting on Olga’s velvet flounces, with her head leaning 
against her, and her big pathetic eyes solemnly upturned, verifies 
this dreadful recital. 

“ And are they very jealoiisof the baby ?”asks Olga, laughing. 

“ The instant he appears they both jump upon me at once, 
and try to spread themselves out so that there sha'n’t be any 
room for him.” 

As Kitty speaks the words, the door opens and admits a com- 
fortable-looking elderly woman, bearing tlie heir of all the 
Clovers, and the pugs carry out their mistress’ statement by tak- 
ing immediate and jealous possession of her, licking her hands, 
and doing their utmost to divert her attention from the hated 
stranger. Olga takes Master Clover in her arras, praises the 
faint golden fluff on his head, tries to imagine she detects a re- 
semblance to Kjtty, and he rewards her with an apoplectic gur- 
gle, which nurse affably interprets into a sign of satisfaction at 
making her acquaintance. A moment later, the Dowager Lady 
Clover sails in, her ringlets stiff and her cap-ribbons fluttering 
with delightful agitation. 

“ You must decide,” she says, graciously, to Olga, after the 
first salutations, “ whom this cherub takes after. Is he not the 
image, the breathing image, of his papa ?” 

Olga looks from the babe to its lovely young mother, and is 
fain to confess in her heart that the little, pasty, blunt- featured 
atom has a good deal more in common with Sir Josias than with 
the piquante rosebud on the sofa. But she remembers Kitty’s 
injunction, and tries to steer a medium course by seeing a like- 
ness to both. 

“ I really believe,” says Kitty, with a mischievous laugh, “that 
in your heart you think him the image of Streplion, if he only 
had a black face, or Strephon a white one.” 

“My love,” expostulates the dowager, severely, whilst Olga 
cannot help smiling, “ you should not say these things even in 


256 


MIGNOISI, 


jest. When you remember the way in which clogs are alluded 
to in tlie Book of books, it is impious, I think, to name them in 
the same breath with this sweet Christian infant.” 

' He isn’t a Christian, you know, yet, mamma,” says Kitty, 
wickedly; ‘"he hasn’t been christened.” 

The dowager looks shocked. 

1 appeal to you, Mrs. Stratheden,” she remarks, with great 
grav ity. “ I can’t make dear Kitty see it ” (the “ dear ” is slightly 
acid). “ Do you not think, now she has this blessed darling, it is— 
1 really must say it — wicked, a tempting of Providence, to fondle 
these — these animals?” looking rancorously at the pugs, who 
cast an appealing glance at Olga. 

Olga pauses a moment, but the dowager’s eye is severely and 
questioningly fixed upon her. 

“ You see,” she answers, gently, “Kitty has made such pets 
of them, and they have been such an amusement to her, and 
dogs are so faithful and so intensely sensitive to neglect from 
those they love — don't you think it would be rather cruel if she 
were to banish them all at once ?” 

‘"There!” cries Kitty, triumphantly, “you hear that. Go at 
once ” (to the dogs) ‘- and give a hand to your champion” And 
Strephon and Chloe with intense gravity march up to Olga, and, 
sitting down on their haunches, offer her their right paws. 

Olga laughs, and the dowager hides her discomfiture in a rap- 
turous embrace of the neglected babe. Apparently her sympathy 
annoys him, for he doubles his fists and begins to scream lustily, 
whereupon nurse takes hasty flight, much gratified by a hand- 
some and stealtliy douceur from Olga, under pretext of one last 
admiring glance. The dowager, quite certain that nurse has 
been making an impromptu pin-cushion of her idol, follows to 
see fair play, 

“ You see,” says Kitty, plaintively, “ I never can have him all 
to myself. Mamma is very excellent and good, of course, but 
— but — a little of her goes a long way. If I only knew when 
she meant to go! I asked Jo last night to give her a hint; but, 
poor dear! he looked so distressed, I hadn’t the heart to say any 
more. She tells him it wouldn’t have lived till now but for 
her.” 

“ I suppose it is a great pleasure to her,” remarks Olga, rather 
perplexed what to say, but sympathizing very much with Kitty 
in her heart for having such a helle mere, 

“ Now,” says Kitty, abruptly, “ let us forget her. Tell me all 
about* poor Mignon. You can’t think how I reproach myself for 
ever having quarreled with her. I never was so sony for any 
one in all my life,” 

“ She is wonderfully better,” answers Olga, cheerfully, “We 
think she will have her reason again perfectly in time, and there 
is every hope that she will not be so very much disfigured ulti- 
mately.” 

“ Poor thing! how does she bear it!” says Kitty, her eyes brim- 
ming with great drops of sympathy: “ she was so lovely and so 
devoted to admiration. Do you know, at the time, "l could 


MIONON, 257 

hardly help thinking it would have been a mercy if she had not 
lived ?” 

*‘I felt so at first,” answers Olga, gently; “ but we are not so 
wise as One who orders our destinies. If, as 1 almost hope may 
be the case, she learns to love Sir Tristram for his intense 
goodness and devotion — if she comes to find her happiness at 
home instead of in the world— won’t it be better than if she 
had kept her beauty and — and it had perhaps spoiled her life ?” 

‘ • How heartless of Raymond to rush off at once, before he 
knew whether she would live or die!” cries Kitty, indignantly. 

Poor boy!” answers Olga; “ it did seem so; but, oh, Kitty, 
if you had seen him as I did! He must have suffered horribly; 
he was so pinched and ghastly-looking, I hardly knew him. He 
is very sensitive, you know.” 

“Sensitive!” echoes Kitty, incredulously. “Much love he 
must have had, to fly from her like the plague because he thought 
her beauty was gone. That is just like men.” 

“ Not all men,” says Olga, softly, “ Look at Sir Tristram! If 
you could see his devotion, his perfect love of her, his thought- 
fulness, you would never say a word against a man again. And 
really, my dear ” (smiling), “ I cannot imagine that you have 
any right from your own experience, to speak harshly of the 
sex.’' 

“I like to call them wretches and think they are,” laughs 
Kitty, “ It gives me a pleasant feeling of superiority to talk of 
their wickedness and selfishness. My own experience! no indeed! 
Jo is the dearest, best fellow’ in the world, and I treat him shame- 
fully. But he likes it, you know: it wouldn’t be me if I did not 
tease and worry and gird at him from morning till night.” 

“ I don’t think you have very much on your conscience,” smiles 
Olga. 

“ Tell me some more about Mignon,” says Kitty; and Olga 
complies. 

“ Ever since the day, about a month ago, that she recovered 
her reason and had a great fit of crying, she has been perfectly 
sensible, though sometimes she sits for whole days without say- 
ing a word. She is generally more or less in an apathetic state; 
she rarel}^ smiles, and every now and then has terrible fits of 
crying — poor dear! — when she suddenly remembers the change 
in her looks;' and some days she has frightful headaches, and 
cannot raise her head from the pillow. Is it not strange ? — she 
used to dislike me, you know, and now^she always seems pleased 
to see me; and when these frightful pains come on, nothing 
soothes her so much as my passing my hand gently to and fro 
over her hafio” 

“Poor thing!” ejaculates Kitty, “Howl should like to see 
her! As soon as I drive out I will go to her.” 

“ I almost doubt if she would see you. She is very sensitive 
about being looked at; none of the servants are allowed to see 
her; the nurse, her sister, and Sir Tristram wait upon her en- 
tirely. But I will hint at it, if you wish.” 

“ Do!” cries warm-hearted Kitty. “ I feel as if I can never be 
bappy until I have thrown my arms round her and kissed her 


258 


MIGNON. 


and asked her forgiveness (only in heart, of course, for all 
these bygones must be bygones). Does she ever allude to Ray- 
mond ?” 

“ Only in one way. It seems that once, I suppose when they 
had some little quarrel, he told her that if she were to lose her 
beauty, no one would ever care for her again— that there was 
nothing else lovable in her.” 

“ What a brute!” cries Kitty. 

“You forget, my dear; she was beautiful then, and how could 
he forecast so awful a calamity ? This seems always in her 
thoughts; nothing Mary or I can say gives her any comfort.” 

“ Poor, poor, Mignon!” sighs Kitty. 

Six more weeks, lighted by an ever warmer-waxing, longer- 
tarrying sun, journey toward summer! May is drawing to its 
last days, and Olga is still at the Manor House. The charm of 
Ijondon seasons is wearing off for her. She is no longer under 
the magnetizing influence that draws folk town and smokeward 
when the country is putting forth her charms most lavishly to 
stay them. She has not even made her annual courtesy to her 
sovereign, nor given definite orders to the housekeeper in Cur- 
zon Street to make ready for her advent. 

There are various reasons for this tardiness and indecision; 
perhaps the strongest is that one day when she broached the 
subject of her departure to Mignon, the poor thing burst into 
tears, and entreated that she would not leave her again. For at 
the beginning of the monih, feeling a want of change, she had 
run over to Paris for a fortnight, and Mignon had missed her 
terribly, and been almost inconsolable. Lady Bergholt has not 
lost her old petulant, exacting ways: though it is infinitely 
touching sometimes to see how the poor thing will suddenly 
stop short and sigh' and leave some imperious sentence unfin- 
ished, as if she remembers that she no longer has the right to 
exact. 

But beyond her sympathy for Mignon, Olga is feeling a lack 
of interest in the things that once gave her pleasure. The 
world seems empty and unsatisfying; her heart aches with long- 
ing for a separate individual interest in life; the threads and 
fragments of other more complete lives that come in contact 
with her own give her a sense of dissatisfaction. It seems an 
empty, undesirable fate to lead a life of which her own pleasure 
is the sole center and object. She repents —in spite of all that 
common sense can urge — repents bitterly of sending Leo away. 
The more other men approach her with admiration and love, 
the more she feels drawn toward the young fellow who had 
given her his first, freshest, sincerest love. After the pleading 
of his impassioned voice, the love-making of other men seems 
stereotyped and unnatural. Lord Threestars, laying aside his 
habitual langor, had been very much in earnest in his wooing, 
but Olga, who liked him as a friend, was utterly unmoved to any 
warmer feeling for him. For Leo she has that feeling of protec- 
tion that a woman invariably has for a man younger than her- 
self, and which in no way detracts from his lordship over her 
heart, nor lessens his dignity in her eyes! 


MIGNON: 


Olga is not of a sanguine disposition; slie is perhaps more 
prone to take the pessimist’s than the optimist’s view of life. 
She tells herself that Leo will come back cured of his love f oi- 
lier; he may have sworn allegiance to a new mistress; politics, 
ideas that she has given him, may rival her; or perhaps, she 
thinks with a jealous pang (American women are very hand- 
some and fascinating), perhaps some younger, fairer woman 
than herself may console him for the love that gave him so much 
pain. And, now that it is too late, she tells herself how much her 
money and influence might have helped him; how she might 
have pushed him forward to a brilliant and useful future. He 
had written to her in answer to her letter, but he made no 
allusion to the old love, and she chose to think it was because he 
was forgetting it. 

“If he ever comes back! if he still cares for me!” she says to 
herself; but she finishes the sentence with a sigh only. 

To return to Mignon. If one believed in a system of rewards 
and punishments for our actions in this life, one might wonder 
what iniquities this poor child had committed to draw down 
upon herself so awful a retribution. Her little selfishness, her 
love of pleasure, her comparative carelessness for the feelings 
of others, which were after all very much the result of an in- 
judicious spoiling, were surely not enough to call forth such a 
visitation. Every day makes her more keenly alive to her 
misery— every day that improves her bodily health and helps her 
system to rally from the shock it has received. She has banished 
all the mirrors; she will not permit a servant to come near 
her; she says daily to her husband, unconvinced by his un- 
ceasing devotion, “You do not really care for me: it is only 
pity.” And to all his lavish tenderness and endearments she 
only says, with a touch of her old scornful mirth, “ You are a 
wonderful actor, you do it most naturally, but there is notliing 
to love in me now.” And always when she says this she falls to 
bitter weeping. Once now and then she is touched by his good- 
ness, and says, taking his hand: 

“How good you are to me! I have not deserved it. I did 
not go to you in London when you sprained your ankle. And 
you have never once left me all these months. Do, do go and 
have a holiday, and ” (her voice quivering) “go to London and 
see some pretty faces, and try to think I am only a dreadful 
nightmare.” 

“ My darling,” cries Sir Tristram, grieved to the heart, “ do 
not say these things. How shall I make you believe that you 
are as dear to me, nay, dearer, than you ever were V Shall I go 
and get my mother’s Bible and swear upon it ? You know I 
would not lie upon that.” 

“ I do not know,” she answers, captiously; “ there are some 
lies more holy than truth, and you might think that one. 
Come ” (smiling a little), “ sit on this side of me,” pointing to her 
right side, “ and look only at my profile, and try to think both 
sides are alike.” 

He humors her whim, and sits down as she bids him, and 
looks tenderly at the p^’ofile that is as lovely as ever. 


2m 


MIGNOK 


“ I will have a mask made for the other side,” she says, try- 
ing to smile, but ending in tears. 

By dint of much persuasion she has been induced at last, 
chiefly by Olga’s efforts, to drive out. She is covered with a 
thick veil; the coachman and footman are emphatically forbid- 
den even to look in her direction ; the woman at the lodge, the 
people about, are all warned not to salute nor seem to see her. 
She always carries a large parasol, and the companion of her 
drive has orders to warn her of the approach of any one, that she 
may hide her face. So morbidly sensitive is she about her 
altered looks, she will not permit either her father or mother 
to come to her. After a time she begins to study witli 
much interest how the ravages of her beauty may best be re- 
paired. She will go to London and have the four missing teeth 
replaced; she will see the most skillful surgeons, and they will 
surely be able to alter the drawing down of the flesh from the 
eye, the caught-up lip, which is now her greatest disflgurement. 
She is full of this one day when Olga comes to see her. 

“I know I can never be beautiful again,” she says, in a pa- 
thetic voice. “ I don’t expect or hope for it; all I want is that 
people may not shudder when they see me. Oh!” she cries, 
bursting into bitter tears, what did I ever do to deserve this ? 
—how can people say God is good or just ?” 

Olga’s only answer is to lay the poor head against her tender 
breast and kiss the golden hair. 

“ It is hard, darling,” she whispers, presently. She is not of 
those who have ever ready at their lips texts of Scripture appro- 
priate to condemn the repining of the stricken at heart: the 
words of Job’s reproach to his officious friends could never have 
been applied to her: 

“ I also could speak as ye do, if your soul were in my soul’s 
stead. I could heap up words against you, and shake mine head 
at you.” 

Rather these: 

“ But I would strengthen you with my mouth, and the mov- 
ing of my lips should have assuaged your grief.” 

“What can I do?” says Mignon presently, with a gesture of 
despair. “The women in books, when they lose their beauty, 
turn religious, and go about and visit the sick. But ” (with a 
little shudder) “ I cannot. I do not like the thought of it any 
more than I ever did. Misfortune hasn’t turned me good: I 
think I am more wicked. I never used to feel so bitter and 
spiteful as I do now. I wish I were a Roman Catholic! I would 
go into a convent.” 

Olga takes her hand, and looks at her with humid eyes. 

“ My dear,” she says, gently, “ there is work for you to do in 
the world — better work than you could do by shutting yourself 
away from it. You have a great deal in your power.” 

“ No,” cries Mignon, sharply; “I have not. I have nothing.” 

“Yes, you have! First of all, you can make your husband 
very happy. You know he loves you with all his heart; yoit 
know, although you feign not to believe it, that he loves you as 
dearly as in your most beautiful days— more, because you have 


MIGNON, 261 

need of him, and a real, true, noble love is not altered by cir- 
cumstances that would destroy an ignoble one.” 

“ Like Raymond’s!” breaks in Mignon, passionately. “ Oh, I 
did not think he could have been so base and cruel! I never 
cared for him ” (vehemently). ‘ ‘ I never pretended to. I always 
laughed at his protestations of devotion, and made fun of them, 
but I did not think he could have treated me so. If he had been 
unhappy about me, if he had stayed to see whether I lived or 
died, if he had sent some message to me, shown some sorrow or 
pity for me, I could have forgiven him; but to leave me so! oh, 
I hate him! When I think of him, 1 long for revenge, I long to 
hear of him in pain or misery, I ” 

“Hush, my dear,” says Olga, softly. “Shall I tell you what 
to do when these bitter thoughts come to you ? Remember, not 
that you have lost an unworthy love, but that you have always 
with you a pure, perfect one, a life bound up in yours, which 
thinks itself amply repaid by a little love, a little tenderness, from 
you . Y ou need go no further afield to do good than your own home. 
Try to make your husband happy, and you can do it so easily by 
a few smiles, a tender word now and then, and when you are 
better and able to think of other duties, try to find some one 
who is miserable and in want, whom a little help from you can 
perhaps make happy. You can’t think what a cure for misery 
it is to relieve the pain of others.” 

Mignon looks at her attentively. 

“How good you are!” she says, remorsefully. “And I used 
to hate you so!” 

“ At all events you do not hate me now,” answers Olga, with 
a bright smile. 

“I love you!” cries Mignon, throwing her arms round her, 
“ 1 think 1 love you almost better than any one except Gerry. 
And ” (looking intently at her) “I used to say you were not 
pretty. I used to say I wondered what men saw to admire in 
you. I can see it no\v. It was only my spite and jealousy. 1 
remember saying to that nice-looking, fair young fellow, Ray- 
mond’s friend, I forget his name, that you were old and passee, 
and he turned upon me so angrily, and said you were his idea of 
a perfect woman in every way. Why do you blush ? I hated 
him for saying it then, but now I agree with him.” 

The rosy fiush spreads to Olga’s throat and neck ; she is con- 
scious of a thrill of keen pleasure. 

“I do want to b(‘ good,’* says Mignon, earnestly. “ I know 
I never shall be; but if you talk to me often, it will put me in 
mind of it. I never wanted to be good before; one must be 
something” (with unconscious pathos), “and if one cannot be 
beautiful, one ought to be good.” 


263 


MIGNON, 


CHAPTER XLL 

“ For there is more, 1 thought, in man and higher 
Than animal graces, cunningly combined. 

Since oft within the unlovely frame is set 
The shining, blameless soul.” 

Songs of Two Worlds, 

Having resolved to go to London to obtain the best advice how 
to repair the ravages of her beauty, Mignon is feverishly anxious 
to be off at once. But as she hates the thought of the publicity of 
a hotel, Olga proposes that she shall spend a week with her in 
Curzon Street, while Sir Tristram looks about for a house. It is 
to be quite a small one, Mignon insists, and no visitor is to 
set foot in it. No one is to know they are in town: no civilities 
are to be exchanged with any one: even Olga has to promise 
faithfully that her guest shall see and be seen by no one. In- 
deed, she promises more than is asked of her, for she promises 
to devote herself entirely and unreservedly to Mignon during 
the time that she is under her roof. Even Mrs. Forsyth is to be 
left behind — an arrangement in which she cheerfully acquiesces, 
though with secret displeasure. 

And we know enough of Olga to be quite sure that she carries 
out her promise to the letter. Her boudoir is devoted to Lady 
Bergholt’s sole use: no one is permitted to enter it: they drive 
there in the evening, waited upon by Truscott, to whom Mignon 
does not object. He has sufficient delicacy, even without Mrs. 
Stratheden’s hint, never to let his glance fall upon her ladyship’s 
face. He so far renounces his dignity as to take the footman’s 
place on the box of the brougham when his mistress succeeds in 
persuading Mignon to drive out, thickly veiled and concealed in a 
corner of the carriage, to watch the gay world in which she took 
so prominent a part this time last year. The poor child suffers 
at the sight, but it is a relief from the ennui which is beginning 
to afflict her now that her apathy is wearing off. 

Olga reads to her, sings to her, talks to her, mesmerizes 
her, devotes herself perfectly and entirely to her for the week 
they are together, and Mignon’s moods become softer, less 
petulant. Her manner to Sir Ti-istram is more gentle, more af- 
fectionate than it has ever been. He is, in truth, far happier 
than he was twelve months ago, and he wears this crushed 
flower more tenderly and fondly in his breast than the proud, 
strong-stemmed lily of last year. 

Sir Tristram finds a house very near Olga’s, much to his wife's 
satisfaction, and Olga superintends the arrangement of it, half 
fills it with flowers, transfers many delicate knick-knacks tliat* 
can be well spared from her own house, and by a few artistic 
touches makes it look charming before Mignon enters it, Slio 
has not forgotten a careful shading of light, which she 
knows will be grateful to the poor beauty who a little while ago 
could bear unblushing the keenest gaze of an inquisitive sun. 
Olga has to promise that she will very, very often come and see 


MIGNON, 26B 

her poor friend, who cries when she leaves her for the first 
time. 

Poor Mignon, day by day the trial seems more bitter to her. 
Sometimes she feels it is more than she can bear; in the night 
wild thoughts come to her of shaking off a life that has become 
intolerable. From behind her blind she sees gay carriages roll 
by with well-dressed, happy women in them (they must be 
happy, she argues — every woman must be happy who can show 
an unscarred face to the world). She no longer cares for dress. 
Of what use are fine clothes to her, now that there is only her- 
self to see them ? I suppose there are very few wives (even af- 
fectionate ones) who think it worth while to dress for their hus- 
bands. Perhaps, as a pendant to that remark, 1 might add, I 
suppose there are very few husbands (even affectionate ones) 
who know the color or material of their wife’s gown. Sir Tris- 
tram tries to tempt her to take an interest in her toilet; he orders 
costly and elegant apparel to be sent for her inspection, but she 
generally rejects them with a pettish shake of the head. One 
day a handsome black costume comes for her approbation. 
Suddenly a remark of Olga’s about giving pleasure to others 
enters her mind. “I will keep it,” she says, blushing a little. 

I think Regina would like it.” 

This is Mignon’s first step toward a thought for others; and 
she feels so pleased with herself that she is tempted to repeat her 
kind action. Sir Tristram is perfectly delighted; he turns aside, 
that she may not see a treacherous dimness in his eyes. 

Every evening he reads to her, she likes it because it generally 
sends her to sleep, and she has the capacity for sleep that most 
healthy young people possess. The only recreation he permits 
himself is afternoon whist at his club. Mignon does not like 
him to drive with her, as she fears his being recognized. 

She is getting very weary of seeing no one. One day she sur- 
prises her husband by saying, “ Mr. Conyngham may come and 
see me. No doubt ” (with a touch of the old scornful manner) 
“ it will be a great pleasure to him. And when he comes 1 will 
see him alone.” 

Fred loses no time in obeying the summons. His heart is a 
very kind one at the core, in spite of all the hard things he loves 
to say, and his pleasure in depreciating human nature. It is so 
kind, really, that his other self is very often much ^tshamed of 
and very much inconvenienced by it. I think no one out of her 
own family has been more thoroughly grieved or sorry for 
Mignon than he; many a time has he thought over hard words 
spoken to her in his anger at her triumphant consciousness of 
her beauty, and heartily wished them unspoken. 

Her misfortune has taken the sting for her out of him now. 
8he may be as petulant, as wayward, as she will, she shall wring 
no sharp retort from his lips again forever. ^ 

“ 1 do not suppose it has sweetened her temper, poor soul!” he 
says to himself, as he goes up the stairs. “ She is not the sort 
of woman to l3e softened by trouble, or I am very much mis- 
taken.” 

Sir Tristram opens the door, and he goes in alone, goes straight 


264 


MIGNON, 


toward her, and takes both her hands in liis He cannot quite 
trust his voice; there is an unwonted huskiness in his throat. 
But she does not give him time to speak. 

“ Well,” she says, raising her eyes unblenchingly to his, and 
speaking in the rather shrill key he has been accustomed to 
when she was excited in controversy, “ are you not glad? are 
you not delighted ?” 

My dear,” he answers, in a voice quite strange to her ears, it 
is so quiet and solemn, “ what do you take me for? Believe 
me, there is no one else who has felt and feels more deeply for 
you than I. I am glad you sent for me. I have been longing to 
come to you ever since I knew^ you were in town, to ask you to 
forgive me for many unkind and bearish words I have upon my 
conscience. We shall be the best of friends in future, I hope, 
my dear.” And he gives the hands he has not yet relinquished 
a hearty squeeze, and sits down beside her on the still beautiful 
side of her face. 

Ah,” she says, in a voice quivering from nervous excite- 
ment, and with a short, forced laugh, “you will not have oc- 
casion to give me any more good advice now. You won’t have 
to warn me any more, or tell me stories about women w^ho have 
spoiled their lives — not in that w-ay, at least. No one is likely to 
want to run away with me now.” 

Her voice trembles between tears and laughter. She is grow- 
ing hysterical. 

“ I don’t know%” Fred answers, stoutly- I don’t see so very 
much amiss. But all the same, I hope no one will want to run 
away with you, or you with him, because I trust you have 
found out what a good fellow Tristram is, and how much more 
such love as his is worth having than ” 

“ Oh, yes; I know — I know,” she interrupts him, wearily. 
“ He is very good.” Then changing her tone, and speaking 
almost penitently, she says, with emphasis, “Yes, indeed he is 
very, very good!” 

PYed stays a long time with Mignon. He exerts himself to the 
utmost to amuse her, and when he is going she says, with frank 
simplicity : 

“ I did not think you could be so nice. Come again, won’t 
you ?” 

“ That I will, as often as you like. But I have something else 
to propose. Come and see me.” 

Mignon shakes her head. 

“ Nonsense, my dear child!” he says, “you cannot shut your- 
self up forever. Now, listen to my proposal. Come to-morrow 
at five; you shall see no one, I promise. You can amuse your- 
self by looking out of my window, which, as you know, has a 
very cheerful prospect. At half -past six we will dine. I know 
your favorite dishes ” (smiling), “and afterward we will have a 
box at the theater. There is a j^iece at the Strand that will 
make you die of laughing. You can put on a mantilla, and sit 
behind the curtain; unless you like to turn your beautiful side 
outward and have every one staring at you.” 

It takes a long time to get Mignon’s consent to Fred’s proposal, 


MIGNON. 


265 


but ultimately all her scruples are overcome; she goes, and en- 
joys her evening thoroughly. As for Fred, to see his tenderness 
and care of her, you would be divided, if you did not know the 
party, between surmises as to whether he was a doting father or 
an infatuated lover. Mignon has a return of her old high 
spirits. 

“You must not be too fascinating,’’ she whispers to him, 
laughing, “ or you will have to warn me against yourself next 
time. Why were you never like this before ?” 

“ Because I don’t think you ever gave me the chance,” he 
answers. “I am sure I never thought you half so charming 
before.” 

“ In spite of my ugliness ?” she says, growing sad. 

‘‘You are not ugly,” cries Fred; “ nothing can make you that. 
And believe me, my dear, that a gracious manner, and the 
charm of mind, are better in the long run than mere beauty, 
for, though beauty may win love more easily, these, when they 
have won it, keep it.” 

After this, Mignon is often persuaded to go to the theatre, and 
becoming less shy of being seen, she drives every evening in an 
open carriage, starting just at the time that every one else is 
coming home. She swears by Fred now; she can do nothing 
without him. Sometimes she has fits of the old imperious pet- 
ulance, but do what she will, she can never provoke a sharp re- 
tort or a cutting remark from him. And in time she leaves off 
trying. 

It is settled that in July they are to go parti carre to Switz- 
erland and the Rhine — Sir Tristram and Mignon, Fred and 
Mary. 

“ And if you dare to fall in love with Mary, or pay her more at- 
tention than me,” says Mignon, half laughing, half jealous, “ I 
shall send her home.” For, to tell the truth, there are symp- 
toms that Fred is beginning to discover in Miss Carlyle, many of 
the attributes of the model woman of whom he discoursed to 
Sir Tristram on our first acquaintance with him. 

“ She has the grace of manner and the charm of mind, I sup- 
pose,” says Mignon, teasingly. 

“And she is quite pretty enough for anything,” cries Fred, 
warmly. 

“ You are a faithless monster,” pouts Mignon; “ and I will 
never please you by saying I love your dear old ugly face 
again.” 

“ But if I can’t have you for a wife, why may I not love you 
as a sister?” says Fred, half grave, half laughing. 

Mignon, whose nature craves excitement, finds the nearest ap- 
proach to it in traveling. She has always loved open air, sun- 
shine and movement, and now that she can no longer enjoy the 
aliment of men’s flattery and admiration, she is beginning to find 
beauties in nature which she never before suspected. Formerly 
her first idea had always been to pose as an object of attraction 
herself; now, in her almost morbid self-consciousness, she de- 
sires most eagerly to remain unseen, unnoticed, and wishes to 
find gratification for her own senses. And traveling with two 


266 


MIGNON, 


such intelligent companions as Sir Tristram and Fred could only 
fail to be agreeable and instructive to the dullest, most unret;ep- 
tive of persons. That Mignon never was. She loved vanity and 
frivolity, it is true, but she was always capable of better things, 
only the bent of her inclinations did not lead her toward mental 
improvement. Here, abroad, where she rarely meets any one 
she ever saw or heard of, she is less sensitive about being seen, 
and, sheltered by her parasol, and a veil that she can drop at will, 
she abandons herself to the enjoyment of the fine vreather, and 
the delicious air, and recovers a great measure of her natural 
high spirits. She is capricious and petulant at times, says rude 
things, is hard to please, but still it is patent to them all that she 
does make occasional efforts at self-conquest, such as she never 
dreamed of in the palmy triumphant days of her loveliness. She 
is touchingly conscious of her loss of the prerogative she imag- 
ines beauty gives a woman to ride rough-shod over the rest of the 
world. The only reproof Fred ever gives to her sharp petulance 
is a smiling shake of the head, and the two sentences spoken half 
in jest: 

“ The grace of manner, and the charm of mind.” 

“ I shall never have them,” cries Mignon. “ I never had any- 
thing but my beauty; and now that is gone, I shall drop into a 
soured ugly wretch, whom no one cares for.” 

“ You won’t do anything of the sort, my dear,” answers Fred, 
kindly. “ Why, you are so improved already I hardly know you 
—not at all like the Mignon of last year, whom I used to bully 
so shamefully and rudely.” 

“ But what has improved you ?” asks Mignon. “ You ” (laugh- 
ing ruefully) “ have not lost any of your beauty, and from being 
the crossest old stick in the world you have become as good- 
natured as — as ” 

“Don’t try to find a simile,” laughs Fred. “The effort is 
rarely successful.” 

Gradually, by almost imperceptible degrees, Mignon’s manner 
to her husband is undergoing a change. True, she is more pet- 
tish, more capricious, more willful with him than with any one 
else; but that is usually the portion of the one who loves the 
best. But every now and then, used as she is to his unfailing 
care and thoughtfulness for her, receiving it as she does, and 
has always done, as a simple matter of course, she is struck by 
some evidence of love that touches even her, and the dawn of 
gratitude begins to break for the first time in her heart. He is 
never importunate, never puts forth any claim to her thanks; 
he does all, thinks of all, content wdth love’s reward of knowing 
it has done its utmost. Sometimes, in passing him, Mignon 
will lay her hand on his shoulder caressingly, or bestow a bird- 
like kiss on the top of his head; sometimes she will so far conde- 
scend as to perch for a moment on his knee, with her pretty side 
turned toward him; and once or twice she has been touched 
into crying, “ How good you are, and how little I have de- 
served it!” 

So that, after all, one may hope this awful blow which has 
fallen upon her may turn out to be a “ blessing in disguise.” 


MIGNON, 


m 


Meantime, a quiet matter-of-fact kind of wooing is going on be- 
tween the other couple. Fred has dropped his biting cynicisms 
on the marriage state; has left off lauding the comfort and peace 
of bachelorhood ; he begins to see good where he liad declared 
there could but be strife and misery before. He does not look 
forward with any satisfaction to his return to those comfortable 
chambers in Piccadilly, a well-organized but empty room, tlie 
hired smiles of welcome of a civil servant, do not offer him that 
sense of tranquil hien-etre they have been wont to do. Unro- 
mantic Fred has been troubled of late with visions of a tender 
woman’s greeting smile, of kind, soft eyes that shall be glad of 
him, of a gentle hand to smooth the creases from his world-worn 
brow, of sweet lips ready to oppose a loving charity to his sharp 
cynical utterances. He has found this bright particular star, a 
good woman, he thinks — one who is pious, yet not narrow- 
minded, charitable, not self-righteous, high-principled, yet 
sweetly tolerant of the short-comings of others — not censorious, 
not selfish, but finding her pleasure in yielding her own will and 
comfort to that of others. And Mary, who has that gentle and 
good gift of discovering virtue behind however thick a crust the 
possessor elects to wall it in with, has found much to admire and 
respect in Fred, and is by no means averse to the thought of 
spending the rest of her pilgrimage in his company. 

So it happens that one September morning, Fred having 
quietly but persistently overcome every one’s scruples and prej- 
udices (Mignon’s was the strongest), he and Mary are quietly 
married at a little English church in a foreign town. After a 
brief honeymoon they return to Sir Tristram and Lady Berg- 
holt, and all proceed on their way to Italy. 

It is hard upon Sir Tristram, who, heartily sick of foreign 
travel, has looked forward so keenly to the pleasures of English 
country life, to be dawdling in foreign cities that he knows by 
heart, instead of striding through stubble and -turnips after 
partridges, or shooting his coverts on crisp autumn days, or cub- 
hunting, or riding around his farms. But he never hints at the 
privation it is to him, never shows symptoms of the weariness 
he feels, and Mignon, whose perceptive faculties are not acute, 
does not suspect the home-sickness from which her husband is 
suffering. For her own part, she loathes the very name of Berg- 
holt: she never wants to return there: she has not forgiven the 
coldness of her county neighbors, in spite of the handsome way 
in which, after her accident, they allowed bygones to be by- 
gones, and vied with each other in attention, inquiry, and 
sympathy. Lady Blankshire wrote quite a touching letter to 
Sir Tristram, came frequently to inquire personally after the 
poor sufferer, and regularly three times a week the brilliant 
Blankshire livery might be seen traversing the road between the 
Castle and Bergholt Court. She is none the less “ an old cat” in 
Mignon’s eyes. But for no one does she feel the bitterness that 
Raymond has awakened in her soul. 

“ Oh,” she said one day to Olga, clasping her hands, and speak- 
ing with suppressed passion, “ I would give almost everything I 
have only to be revenged on him! If I could only hear that he 


268 


MIONON. 


was ill, or hurt, or maimed, that he had lost all his money, or 
met with some dreadful misfortune, I think I could be reconciled 
to my own fate. When I think that he still goes about the world, 
well and handsome, telling lies, perhaps to other women, talk- 
ing of his romance, his poetry, his sympathy, his power of 
sacrificing his life, his future, for one he loved, it makes me feel 
as if I should go out of my senses. I never thought ” (with in- 
tense passion) “ that I could hate any one as I hate him!” 

“Hush, dear,” said Olga, softly; “do not encourage such 
thoughts. Those who hate are always miserable; the least satis- 
fying passion in the world, when it is attained, is revenge,” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“ New life, new love, to suit the newer day: 

New loves are sweet as those that went before: 

Free love, free field — we love but while we may.” 

The Last Toimianient. 

Sir Tristram, who always loves to give pleasure to others, has 
lent the Bergholt shooting to Mr. Carlyle and Gerry, with per- 
mission to ask as many friends as they please. It is extremely 
agreeable to Captain Carlyle to be in a position to offer so hand- 
some a return to men who have shown him civilities in his less 
palmy days, and Gerry, who is tremendously popular in his regi- 
ment, is not a little proud to give his colonel some unexceptiona- 
ble shooting in the Bergholt preserves, and later on, to gather to- 
gether a few congenial spirits. We may be quite sure that he 
takes no liberties, and does not encroach on the kindness of 
which he is so heartily sensible. 

Fred has got utterly sick of foreign travel, and, though he has 
borne it patiently for Mignon’s sake, long after he is weary of it. 
Sir Tristram thinks it unfair that his friend shall be victimized 
beyond reasonable endurance. He has prevailed upon him to 
take up his headquarters at the Warren for six months, until he 
and Mrs. Conyngham shall have decided upon their future abode; 
and this arrangement has been very gratifying both to Fred and 
his wife. The former looks keenly forward to the sport, and the 
latter to being near her mother, who it is evident sadly misses 
her. 

Regina is to join Lady Bergholt in Paris the beginning of the 
year, and, meantime. Sir Tristram and his wife are going up 
the Nile, as Mignon’s thirst for travel remains unquenched. Her 
husband is consoled by the thought of having her all to himself; 
he has become so necessary to her now that the idea of his con- 
stant society does not bore her as it once did. 

The beginning of February finds them back in Paris, and finds 
also a remarkable improvement in Mignon’s appearance. She 
is less sensitive about it, too, and no longer objects to appear in 
public; but she has a great dislike to being very near any one, 
especially a man. From a short distance the scars and the little 
peculiarity of expression which her accident has given her are 
hardly noticeable; people say at first, seeing her elegance, her 
perfect tournure, and her golden hair, “ What a lovely woman! ' 


MIQNON. 


269 


Then, as frequently, they correct themselves and say, ‘'There is 
something wrong about the face. What is it?” Mignon is 
acutely conscious of this, and always shades her left side from 
scrutiny with a fan or parasol. It gives her a melancholy satis- 
faction sometimes, when she is driving, to see heads turned to 
look at her in evident admiration as in the old days of her beauty; 
but it is a pleasure alloyed with much pain. She has resumed, 
to a certain degree, her taste for dress, and never spares an op- 
portunity of making herself appear to the best advantage. But 
she has so utterly persuaded herself that she can never again 
inspire love or be pleasing in the eyes of men, that she shrinks 
instinctively from their company. There is a certain shyness 
in her manner that many people would think more taking than 
the confidence her beauty wore so bravely in the olden days; 
she has a little way of relying upon her husband that is infinitely 
sweet to him, and gives a charm she is unconscious of to her- 
self. Hers is not a nature to entertain an ardent affection, but 
what love she has she is going to give Sir Tristram. And to 
him it is a gift so precious and unlooked-for that he counts all 
sacrifices made for it as naught. 

One evening they are at the opera; it is a remnant of the poor 
child’s vanity to turn her fair side to the audience — a vanity 
which, though unconfessed, her husband is perfectly conscious 
of, and never fails to gratify by taking a box on the left of the 
stage. 

She is exquisitely dressed to-night, as always; her lovely shoul- 
ders are bare, and one beautiful arm rests on the front of the 
box. Nearly every glass in the house is leveled alternately at 
her and another woman who occupies the box on the other side 
that immediately corresponds with Lady Bergholt’s. 

Sir Tristram, who is too much of an Englishman to be pleased 
f or a lady in his company to be the object of so much attention 
or remark from his own sex, might, under other circumstances, 
be ill- pi eased at his wife placing herself so much en evidence; 
but he has no heart to rob her of what, after all, is so triste a 
pleasure. 

The lady who shares with Mignon the general attention and 
approbation is strikingly handsome — on a larger scale than Lady 
Bergholt, also perfectly dressed, and having an air that you 
rarely meet with except in a Parisian. In the box, and opposite 
to her is a stout man, with a bald head, gray mustache, a ribbon 
in his button-hole — evidently the husband. He does not occupy 
himself with his wife; apparently some one else is doing that, 
by the smiles and charming gestures madame turns constantly 
to a third person sitting in the shade behind her, with an evident 
desire to remain unseen. Monsieur looks discreetly at the stage, 
at the house, everywhere except at his wife; and when the ballet 
commences, a danseuse with enormous eyes, magnified by un- 
spared paint, with black hair, and well-developed muscles, en- 
grosses his whole attention. She wears diamonds of consider^ 
able value in her ears and on her breast, and she is exchanging 
coquettish glances with a gommeiix in the stalls. This seems to 
give exceeding dissatisfaction to monsieur, who grinds his teeth, 


270 MIGNON, 

and mutters frequently a word that seems to be almost entirely 
composed of r’s. 

Mignon has watched the occupants of this box with consider- 
able interest; she is devoured by an insatiable curiosity to see 
the third person, to whom the husband pays so little and the 
wife so much attention, but it is not gratified. She has been 
able to catch a glimpse of a man’s hand softly pressing the slim 
hand of the lady, gloved nearly to the elbow, but the head and 
face are kept rigidly, with evident intention, in the shade. 
Mignon, looking furtively behind her fan, is conscious that the 
Frenchwoman is pointing her out, and expects to see her com- 
panion bend forward; but in vain — either he can see her where 
he sits or he does not care to. Mignon is piqued — she knows 
not why. 

Could she have her wish — could she see the face concealed 
behind the lady’s pearly shoulders — how the red blood would 
mantle in her cheek! how madly her heart would beat! For 
the handsome head bent toward madame, the curved lips 
through which such tender w^ords are fiowing, belong to none 
other than Raymond L’Estrange. With a sudden start, an 
uncomfortable pulsing of his heart, he has, almost imme- 
diately on entering the box, recognized the woman for whom 
he had once professed himself willing to hold the world well 
lost. Instinctively he shrinks from being recognized by her, 
half because of the stinging memory of his neglect of her, half 
because he w’ould not have her wounded by the sight of his de- 
votion to the woman who now holds in his heart the place that 
she once held. His feelings are strangely mixed as he looks at 
her. She has been the fairest, dearest thing in life to him, she 
has been an object of horror and sickening disgust, now she is 
— simply nothing. After the first shock of surprise, he can con- 
template her perfectly unmoved. How often does history re- 
peat itself in this wise! how often a man can look in after-days 
with perfect impassiveness upon the woman who once gave the 
zest to his life, the warmth to his sunshine, the scent to his roses, 
who was to him the essence of all to be desired here, to be hoped 
for hereafter. 

Raymond can even wonder, enthralled as he is by the fascina- 
tions of the women beside him, how he could ever have been so 
infatuated with Lady Bergholt. He remembers with disgust 
how sharply she was wont to snub him, how’ frankly rude she 
used to be, how cold, how ungracious, how indifferent. 

“ Pshaw! I was a boy!” he mutters to himself, wishing to con- 
sole his vanity for having made so gross an error. “ If I had 
had my way, where on earth should I be now?” And he com- 
forts himself with the thought that he is with a charming 
woman, who is never dull nor stupid nor ill-tempered, w’^ho 
never utters a word that can rnflle his keen sensibilities, and 
who, greatest of all charms, has a husband who is not in 
the least degree jealous or afflicted by his attentions to her. 

' ‘ What a charming head!” Raymond's marquise whispers to 
him, indicating Lady Bergholt, with her eyes, One of 


MIGNON. 27 1 

those lovely blonde heads that one only sees in your country- 
women.” 

'‘Do you think so?” he answers, indifferently; then, in a 
lower, warmer key, " In my eyes there is only one lovely head, 
and that is not blonde.” 

The marquise shows her pearly teeth in a gracious smile. 

“ I am not afflicted with jealousy,” she says. “ It is not pain 
to me to hear another woman praised. Come, confess she is 
charming — a perfect face, and the figure of a Venus.” 

“ You have only seen one side,” answers Raymond, in a cold, 
dry voice. For the life of him, he cannot tell what makes him 
say it. 

“ What?” laughs the marquise; “ has she the face of a Janus ? 
Does she smile on one side and frown on the other ?” 

Raymond feels a pang of shame at having spoken so unfeel- 
ingly. 

“ She was very lovely,” he says — “ one of the most beautiful 
women in England. She met with an accident in the hunting- 
field, and one side of her face, I am told, is a good deal disfig- 
ured.” 

“Ah!” murmurs the marquise, with an accent of profound 
pity. Merciless as men love to say women are tovv^ard each other, 
there is not one, I think, incapable of feeling a pang for a sister 
who has lost her chief weapon in the fray of life. She feels as a 
man might toward a fellow soldier or sportsman with his right 
arm disabled, “ But,” she continues, watching the box opposite 
furtively from behind the shelter of her fan, “are you quite 
f- ure it is the same ? There is some one evidently for whom she 
has not lost her charm — some one to whom she is not afraid to 
turn her disfigured side; a handsome man, too, with a noble, 
distinguished air.” 

“Oh,” returns Raymond, indifferently; “that is the hus- 
band.” 

“ Ah,” says the marquise, with arched eyebrows, “ I have 
heard wonderful things of English husbands.” 

And she gives a little envious sigh, and lets her eyes fall for a 
moment upon her own husband, who is still angrily watching the 
abnormally large-eyed danseuse. A little sarcastic smile curves 
her handsome mouth; her husband’s rival is a friend of her own. 
Then she turns to Raymond, and says, softly: 

“ Tell me, my friend, is it that you English are by nature more 
faithful than Frenchmen, or that your women know better how 
to keep your hearts than we ?” 

Raymond gives a short laugh. 

“I think the British idol, respectability, has the most to do 
with it. But you do not meet with so much of it in our higher 
circles now.” 

“ Ah,” says the marquise, with a fine smile (if one may so 
translate the expressive Jin sourire), “ fidelity is a vulgar virtue. 
Tell me ” (in a lower key), “ do you think you will ever be one of 
the model husbands ?” 

“ No,” answers Raymond, as emphatically as though he were 


272 


MIGNOK 


repudiating the possibility of infidelity to the marquise — 
“ never.” 

“Not yet,” she says, softly. “Ah, mon hel enfant, love has 
not yet said its last word for thee. The ballet is over. Let us 
go.” 

Lady Bergholt observes the preparations for departure, and re- 
solves to leave too — her desire to see the third occupant of the 
opposite box having steadily increased during the performance. 
Curiosity has always been fatal to Eve’s daughters, and Mignon's 
persistent inquisitiveness upon this occasion is only one more 
unneeded verification of a threadbare fact. 

She does not take Sir Tristram into her confidence, but simply 
says: 

“ I am tired, dear. Shall we go?” And he at once leaves the 
box to seek his servant. 

He is absent some two or three minutes, whilst Mignon sees 
with impatience that the objects of her curiosity have already 
left their box. 

“ How long you have been!” she cries, with a touch of the old 
petulance, when Sir Tristram returns. 

“ Have I?” he answers, surprised. “ I could not find James 
at first. And I did not know you were in such a hurry.” 

She takes his arm hastily, and almost runs in her eagerness 
to get to the door. Raymond has just put the marquise into her 
coupe, and is just returning to the house. He comes full upon 
Sir Tristram and Lady Bergholt. It is an awkward moment: he 
cannot possibly avoid them, and has not a moment for reflection. 
So he acts upon the first impulse, which is to take off his hat 
and advance, smiling, to meet them. A sudden, violent anger 
takes possession of Mignon, crimsons her cheeks, gives her a 
supernatural strength. With one hand she draws the mantilla 
sharply over her face, with the other she drags Sir Tristram, 
who is stopping to speak to the young man, away. There is no 
mistaking her gesture, and Raymond, reddening and uncom- 
fortable, pursues his way, whilst Mignon stands, palpitating, 
trembling, in the clear frosty air. 

When the carriage comes she thro\ys herself into a corner in 
silence. Her husband does not speak to her; he sees that she is 
violently agitated, and thinks it kinder to leave her to herself. 
“ Poor soul!” he reflects, “ it is natural she should be agitated at 
seeing him;” but a pang crosses his breast lest her anger should 
be after all but an impulse of wounded love. He has not re- 
marked the flirtation at the opera that so strongly interested 
Mignon: he does not know how passionate a jealousy hatred as 
well as love can bear; he does not dream that his wife is smart- 
ing under the stinging thought that life and love still lie before 
the man who has been cruel and treacherous to her — that his 
beauty is untarnished, his handsome curved lips can still repeat 
poetic lies in other women’s ears, his eyes melt to the old ten- 
derness for beauty’s sake — beauty that has not been scarred and 
maimed through his fault. For she is unjust, as women are apt 
to be, and says to herself that if he had not encouraged her to 
disobey her husband, she would never have gone hunting at all. 


MIGNON, 


273 


It is a longish drive to their appartement in the Avenue du 
Bois de Boulogne, but Lady Bergholt does not recover from her 
agitation; the hand Sir Tristram takes to help her alight is 
feverish and trembles violently. He follows her to her room, 
where the maid is waiting for her. 

“You need not stay,” Sir Tristram says, and the abigail, 
though she looks surprised, goes without a word. A well-bred 
??ian-servant never looks surprised; the more events astonish 
him, the more marble waxes his countenance; but a woman 
would have to go through a tremendous amount of training be- 
fore she could be taught not to look her astonishment. 

Gently Sir Tristram removes Mignon’s shawl, and performs 
the duties he has imposed upon himself: it is easy to see he is not 
a novice at it, and she impassively lets him do as he will, not 
seeming to notice that he is there at all. But suddenly, as 
though the strain had been too great, she gives way, and, turn- 
ing, flings her arms about his neck; and laying her head upon 
his breast, breaks into passionate, uncontrollable weeping. Thus 
he holds her, her fair head pillowed on his faithful breast, his 
strong arms binding her, and though he speaks no word, she is 
soothed, feeling in the strength and tenderness df his clasp that 
his heart is her shield and buckler against the world, that, though 
there be false and cruel men, here at least is one whose love is 
perfect, whose truth is as steel, and through all the bitterness 
she grasps, however feebly, the truth that a lawful and pure love 
is the only love worth}^ a woman’s having. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“ Says she not well? and there is more— this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl necklace of the queen, 

That burst in dancing and the pearls were spilt, 

Some lost, some stolen, and some as relics kept. 

But nevermore the same two sister pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other 
On her white neck. So is it with this rhyme; 

It lives dispersedly in many hands. 

And every minstrel sings it differently; 

Yet is there one true line — the pearl of pearls — 

Man dreams of fame, while woman wakes to love.” 

Tennyson. 

I MUST ask the long-suffering reader, who has gone with me 
thus far, to let me again take the novelist’s privilege, of which 
I have more or less liberally availed myself in this story, and, 
putting back the hands of the clock, return once more upon my 
steps. Go back with me, then, through winter’s crisp frost and 
autumn’s decay of all that summer made ripe and fair, to the 
hot bright day in late July, when Leo, fresh from his travels, 
comes joyfully back to the home of his fathers. He may have 
seen much to wonder at, much to admire, much that he would 
never havc^ dreamed of if he had remained in England; his mind 
may be enlarged, his sympathies widened, by contact with men 
of other nations, languages, and habits, but he returns with his 


274 


MIGNON, 


love and faith in his own country increased a thousandfold, as 
every Englishman worth his salt always does. 

If you had seen him this morning, with his magnificent golden 
beard, you would hardly have recognized him; but now that he 
is shaved, and has only his fair mustache, and enough whisker 
to make him thoroughly English, he is very little changed from 
the Leo of last year. Perhaps he looks two or three years older 
(he looked ten with his beard): there are a few lines, of not 
much prominence, that thought and pain of mind have graven; 
he is a trifle broader, more muscular, and much more self-pos- 
sessed. He is a fine-looking fellow, and I think few of his 
countrymen would take exception to his being pointed out as a 
good representative type of an Englishman. He has shaved his 
beard in deference to a well-known prejudice of his father’s. 

“ I like to see a man’s mouth and chin,” Mr. Vyner, senior, is 
wont to say “ then I know something about him. If a man has 
a fool’s chin and knows it, or bad teeth, I don’t so much blame 
him; but if he only makes himself like a Skye terrier because 
he’s too lazy to shave, or thinks he looks pretty, I object entirely. 
Besides, it’s a beastly, dirty habit. Many a time I’ve seen a man 
at dinner making himself delightful to a woman when I’ve read 
in her eyes that she was longing to tell him his beard was full of 
crumbs or melted butter. 

In deference to his father's opinion, then, and because he 
wishes to convince him that he has come back as English as he 
started, Leo has sacrificed what, in the eyes of many misguided 
fair ones, would have been his greatest ornament. 

Mr. Vyner is patrolling the drive, the hall, the rooms, with ex- 
cited expectation, ready to swear at anybody or anything on the 
slightest provocation. He never knew how dear that boy of his 
was until he had lost and was on the eve of finding him again. 
He is as nervous as a woman and begins to think about railway 
accidents, and then looks at his watch and the hall clock, and 
fumes and frets and pishes and pshaws at himself for an old 
fool. He comes with exasperation upon Hales, in a cap flaunt- 
ing with gay ribbons, lying in wait behind a door, and he sees 
peeping faces that he would heartily like to slap, at various 
coigns of vantage. 

“ Can’t the jades let me have him to myself for one minute ?” 
he mutters, angrily. “ Women never have any decent feeling; 
they must poke their d d inqusitive noses into everything.” 

Wheels at last. He rushes to the door, sees in the distance 
two figures, and beats a hasty retreat. 

“ Tell Mr. Leo I am in my room,” he cries to the butler. 

He is not going to run the risk of making a fool of himself 
before his servants: he does not want to share Leo with the but- 
ler and the maids, and he has a strange, nervous sensation of 
choking that involves a good deal of clearing of his throat. A 
minute more, and the cheery ring of that pleasant, beloved voice 
falls on his expectant ear. 

“ How are you, Simpson? how are you, Hales? Where is my 
father?” 

The door is flung open, and for the life of me I cannot say in 


MIGNON, 


275 


the confusion and excitement what happens them. A min- 
ute later Mr. Vyner is still shaking Leo by both hands, and there 
is an unwonted moisture in both men’s eyes; and an uncertain 
quivering about the muscles of their mouths. The dogs are 
leaping upon Leo, clamoring frantically for notice, and he looks 
as he feels, right glad of his home-coming and his welcome. 
How much there is to tell, how much to hear, and, as is always 
the case, how few words either can find at first! Presently Leo 
is allowed five minutes’ leave of absence to say, “ How d’ye do ?’' 
to Hales and the butler, to give cheery words and smiles all 
round, and tell everybody that when his things are unpacked 
they will find they have not been forgotten. 

“ Well, my boy,” says Mr. Vyner, as they smoke after-dinner 
cigars by the open window, “ I suppose 1 need not tell you how 
glad I am to have you back.” 

Not more glad than I am to get back, sir,” answers Leo, 
heartily. 

You look twice the man you did when you went away,” pro- 
ceeds Mr. Vyner, looking with undisguised pride at his stalwart 
son. “ I suppose, after all, change is a good thing. And you’ve 
quite got over your hopeless passion, eh ? given up crying for the 
moon ?” 

“ Yes,” answers Leo, gravely. 

“ There!” cries Mr. Vyner, triumphantly; “did I not tell you 
when you were going about this time last year with your long, 
miserable face, didn’t I tell you that you’d forget all about it, 
and probably be very thankful you didn’t have your own way?” 

“It isn’t that, sir,” says Leo, quietly. “It is not that the 
moon is any less desirable or beautiful in rny eyes, only that, 
like the child. I have come to realize how far off it is.” 

“ Humph!” says his father, with grim jocularity; “ then you’ll 
have to be content with one of the lesser planets. I suppose you 
mZZ marry ; though Heaven knows I don’t want a woman here, 
upsetting the place and filling it up with gimcracks and trum- 
pery.” 

“Make your mind happy, my dear father,” laughs Leo. “ I 
do not think my wife will ever give you much trouble.” 

So it may be seen that, if Leo has not altogether overcome the 
passion that has been so fraught with pain, he has at least con- 
quered it enough to go about the world^ with a cheerful face and 
a mind prepared to take up the sterner interests of life. It is at 
the close of this session that Mr. Gladstone surprises the country 
by giving up the premiership. Mr. Vivian takes the opportunity 
of retiring frorn Parliament, giving Leo all his infiuence and 
support. Elections and runs are things that have been described 
so often and so well that I will not attempt to give any details 
of Leo’s canvassing, but content myself by saying that, after en- 
countering sufficient opposition to give zest to success, Leo is 
returned as the Conservative member. He is thoroughly popu- 
lar, and the manner in which he acquits himself at the trying 
time draws down no small meed of approbation upon him. He 
has lost the mauvaise honte that oppressed him formerly, and, 
now that he has traveled and studied and thought, he has formed 


276 


MIONON. 


opinions of his own and speaks his own convictions, not random 
words put into his mouth by his agents to give him a temporary 
popularity, and uttered without consideration as to whether he 
means to stand by them, i^eo is not extravagant in his prom- 
ises, nor does he indulge in vague and flowery rhetoric. He 
says simply what he means to try to do, and^what he thinks is 
right and fair, and the free and independent electors who look 
at the frank honesty of his face, and w^ho catch the ring of truth 
in his firm, quiet voice, make up their minds that for once they 
have got the right man in the right place. 

Mr. Vyner’s opinions have undergone a considerable change. 
The reluctant disgust with which he formerly contemplated his 
son’s going into Parliament has given way to unfeigned pride 
and pleasure; he has been with Leo through all the canvassing, 
and has watched him with an astonished pride and respect that 
has many a time set the blood glowing in his veins. He cannot 
realize that tnis self-possessed man, with the frank, distin- 
guished bearing, is the same Leo who blushed and stammered 
out his thanks so lamely at his coming of age. He even says 
humbly to himself, “I was an old fool; and, if he had listened 
to me, I should have missed the proudest day of my life.” 

The days no longer hang upon Leo’s hands; he is happy and 
contented, as every man must be who has constant and healthy 
occupation for his mind. It is only women who are compelled 
to sit at home idle, brooding sadly over the dark side of life, and 
the happiness that might have been. Trite may be the saying, 
“Work is the universal panacea,” but there is no truer one in 
the English language. Many years ago I met with a passage in 
a book that took considerable hold of my mind. I believe it 
was one of Mrs. GaskelTs, and at this distance of time, with no 
means of correcting myself by reference if wrong, I will not 
vouch for giving the exact words. But these are near enough: 

' ‘ Thinking has often made me very unhappy : acting viever has. 
Do something: do good if you can — but do something!” 

Olga is suffering terribly from her enforced idleness. What 
can a rich woman, not rich enough to be a public benefactor, 
like Lady Burdett Coutts, but a woman in possession of a hand- 
some income, with no ties, no pursuit but that of seeking her own 
amusement, do with her life ? Olga does give, generously, lav- 
ishly; but giving, to a woman in her position, generally means 
sitting down for a moment before her escritoire and tracing a 
few lines in her check-book. She visits her own poor, but they 
are so well cared for, this gives her very little to do or think of. 
There are no harrowing cases of want and misery to exercise her 
tender heart: she takes good care there shall not be. 

This has been almost the most miserable summer she ever re- 
members. She has no heart or pleasure in anything, but wan- 
ders about among the flowers, and lies in her hammock on the 
green island, with only the heartache for company. Tears are 
often in her eyes: she feels a loneliness that, in spite of the ease 
and luxury which surround her, makes her no more to be envied 
than the poor seamstress who toils in a garret, with only a crust 
between her and starvation. It is Olga's heart that is getting 


MIGNON, 


277 


starved, and the pang of hunger is harder to bear because lier 
hands are idle. She knows that Leo is back in England, and 
is cruelly hurt by his silence. Raymond has written to her of his 
friend’s return; he himself is still absent, and does not even talk 
of coming home. Leo had written once in answer to the letter 
his father forwarded; in it he had told her of his travels, of his 
intended movements, but there was not a word of love or hope, 
not a syllable he might not have written to a woman for whom 
he had never professed anything more than the most ordinary 
friendship. Surely women are unreasonable, and Olga, in this 
sense, shows no superiority over the rest of her sex. 

A woman will tell a man plainly that she can never be anything 
to him, that he must think of her as a sister — a dear sister, if he 
will, but only as a sister; but no sooner does he obey, or seem to 
obey her, than she accuses him of caprice, of faithlessness, of inca- 
pability of feeling a real love. Once her slave, he must always 
be her slave, and hug his chains, though she treats him with 
coldness and cruelty, though she engages herself to another 
man, sometimes even though she marries another. Olga is per- 
suaded that Leo has quite forgotten her: she tries to fortify her- 
self by saying she has been very wise in applying the test, see- 
ing how utterly unable he was to bear it. And yet there are 
times when the love of him, the desire to see him, takes such 
possession of her soul, she thinks she could have borne better to 
be unhappy with him than to be so lonely and miserable with- 
out him. 

She reads in the paper that he is the Conservative candidate 

for D , and sends for the local papers and devours greedily 

every word in them that concerns him. She is divided between 
joy and pain when she hears of his success — she has grown so 
jealous of the new mistress, whom she herself gave him as a con- 
solation for the loss of herself. 

When it is over, she sits down to write to him. She has ex- 
pected to hear something from him: he might even have had 
the common politeness to send her a paper. But, from first to 
last, he makes no sign. Then, ashamed of her own weakness, 
yet imable to conquer it, she takes pen in hand, and writes him 
thus; 

“ My dear Leo, — I have been hoping that, in spite of all the 
occupation a contested election must have given you, you would 
find time to write a few words to one who takes pleasure in re- 
membering (if you have forgotten it) that she first inspired you 
with the project that has come to such a happy fulfillment to- 
day. I need not tell you how glad I am of your success; if you 
have any remembrance of our talks in bygone days, you will 
divine that I am proud of it — and of you, too. I think I un- 
derstand in the almost studied absence of great professions ijii 
your speech, that you fully and honestly intend to do, not as 
little as possible of what you promise, but a great deal more. 
You have probably advanced so far now in the study of 
politics, you are no doubt so fully decided upon the course 
you intend to pursue, that you no longer need a woman’s en- 


MIGNON. 


27^ 

tliusiaSin to inspire you; you liave discovered, perhaps, that it 
is unpractical. And yet many men have been none the worse 
for having a friend of the other sex in whom to confide their 
aspirations. They have been glad that a woman should re- 
joice in their success and sympathize with them in their dis- 
appointments. And may not I still be that to you, dear Leo ? 
Of course I can imagine how much engaged you are at the 
present moment; but could you not find time to run down 
here for a day or two and resume your acquaintance with the 
inhabitants of the Manor House, who will all give you the 
heartiest welcome? Two years ago, it was, I fear, a dearer 
spot to you than it is now; but, remember! public men should 
always have good memories. Good-bye. I shall be disappointed 
if you do not fix some time within a month to come to us. 
Always, dear Leo, Most sincerely yours, 

Olga Stratheden.” 

Leo has been out riding, and the second post has come in his 
absence. In great disgust and wrath, Mr. Vyner has beheld the 
Blankshire postmark, and the distinct well-bred handwriting 
that his soul abhors. 

“ Here,” he says, thrusting the letter into his son’s hand as he 
enters — “ another letter from that — that woman.” (With great 
difficulty he foregoes the adjective which always seems appro- 
priate to him in speaking of her.) “ She can’t let you alone. 
For the matter of that, I never knew a woman who could. Per- 
haps her regard for you is increased, now you’re an M. P.” 

Leo’s color rises, his heart throbs, as he takes the letter. His 
father watches him narrowly. 

‘‘For God’s sake, my boy,” he says, imploringly, “don’t let 
her make a fool of you again.” 

Leo goes away with his treasure, half divided between delight 
and regret. The regret is that he can still feel so keen a delight 
at the sight of Olga’s writing. He goes a good long way into 
the wood before he breaks the seal. As he reads it, a deep glow 
of pleasure comes into his heart to know that she cares so much 
for his success, and he begins to turn over in his mind how soon 
he can get away to go and see her. Next week, at the latest, he 
will spare two days; what is the inconvenience in comparison 
with the pleasure of seeing her dear face and of hearing her 
voice say she is glad of his success ? And, after all, is it not true 
that he owes it to her ? 

But after the first joyful determination, doubts begin to assail 
him. Is it worth while, for a few hours’ pleasure, to fight the 
old battle over again, to suffer the long, weary pain of hopeless 
love, to see how fair and charming she is, only to realize the 
bitter blank of a life without her ? Shall he take the zest out of 
his new career, weaken his energies, unfit himself for the duties 
which he has sworn to fulfill to the very best and highest of his 
ability ? It costs him a long and bitter struggle to forego the 
pleasure he has promised himself, but in the end he conquers. 

At dinner, his father remarks, with extreme chagrin, that he 
IS silent, and out of sorts, and that he wears a pale and haggard 


MIONON. 


^70 


look he has not seen on his face for many a clay. After dinner 
Mr. Vyner gets suddenly out of his chair, and coming over to 
where Leo sits, lays his hand upon his shoulder, and says, with 
strong emotion in his voice: 

“ My boy, don’t go back to the old state of things. Shake off 
this woman’s influence. Be a man. Remember, you are not 
your own master now.” 

“’I know it, sir,” Leo answers, with a faint smile. You 
need have no fear for me.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

“ That they may know these golden years, 

Which love has made to seem so bright, 

Were heralded by darkest night, 

And earned in bitterness and tears.” 

Violet Fane. 

Leo sits up late that night writing his reply to Olga’s letter. 
It is this: 

“ My dear Mrs. Stratheden, — If I have not written to you 
about my affairs, it is not because I am either ungrateful or for- 
getful. I think I need hardly tell you that; for, were either the 
cause of my silence, I should be unworthy of a place in your 
thoughts. Whose sympathy could be so dear to me as hers to 
whose counsel and inspiration I owe the wish, the very idea, of 
being anything more than I was contented to be two years ago ? 
Let me speak out to you fairly and frankly this once; let me tell 
you everything that is in my heart. Nothing in this world 
would give me so much happiness as to see you — above all things 
to see you at the dear old Manor House, with which my 
dearest and happiest memories are indissolubly linked. My first 
impulse was to go to you. I had even fixed joyfully in my 
own heart the day and hour when I should see you once 
again. It is only after a hard struggle that I have conquered 
myself, and resolved not to do what would give me more 
pleasure than anything else. The pleasure would cost me too 
dear. I don’t want to evoke the sympathies of your kind, 
generous heart by telling you how intensely my love of you 
has made me suffer, nor how long and severe has been the 
struggle to rally from the miserable indifference to life and the 
future into which I had fallen. Thank God, I have recovered 
my lost energies; but the joy with which I saw your dear letter 
to- day makes me feel how weak I am after all, and how mad 
it would be to risk having to fight the long, weary battle afresh. 
I must tell you this once, and you will forgive me if it seems 
presumptuous or inconsiderate in me to repeat to you what 
you have told me it gives you pain to hear. You have 
been, you are, the one love of my life — the incarnation to 
me of all that is pure and good and desirable in a woman; 
and I am one of those who think woman God’s best gift to man. 
My darling — let me call you so this last time — I love you with 
all my heart and soul; how, then, do you think I can be satisfied 


280 


MIGNOK 


with a poor, barren friendship? a sympathy you are ready to 
extend to any one who asks or needs it. 

“ 1 want you for mine, mine alone, mine altogether. To be 
only your friend, to have one hour, perhaps, with you, to a hun- 
dred away from you, and that one imbittered by the thought of 
how soon I should have to part from you! You are not one of 
those women of whom one suffers satiety, w^hose pretty prattle 
is a relaxation for the moment, but which one is relieved to es- 
^ cape from. I see you smile, thinking to yourself that I have 
more knowledge of the world and of your sex than the Leo 
whom you remember. No; the more one has of- your dear so- 
ciety, the more charming and precious it becomes, the more one 
hungers after it when one has lost it- You say men have been 
glad sometimes of women, to confide to those sympathizing ears 
their ambitions, their successes, their disappointments; but, rely 
upon it, they were not women passionately, hopelessly beloved, 
as you are by me. To give those confidences, a man must have 
the calm, restful feeling of friendship, not the restless passion 
of denied love. And so, telling you this solemn truth, I throw 
myself upon your mercy, and, confessing to you all my grati- 
tude, my love, my devotion, I ask you to save me new pain by 
letting me try, not to forget you, but to tear you out of the 
every-day work of my life. You shall be my incentive to all 
that is good; when I want strength of purpose for some difficult 
task, as God knows I shall often enough, I will look at your pict- 
ure, my dearest possession, and remember the noble words you 
used to speak to me in the old days; and if I ever achieve any- 
thing worth doing, say to yourself, ‘ He did it by my help, for 
my sake.’ God bless you, my angel, my darling! pray for me 
sometimes in your pure heart. I cannot help but be the better 
for it. Ever yours, and yours entirely, 

“ Leo." 

Can you imagine what Olga felt when she read that letter ? 
I will not venture on such sacred ground. I only know that she 
locked herself in her room, and when she came out of it hours 
afterward, her eyes were red from crying. But there are other 
tears than those grief wrings from the heart. There was a small 
thin letter in her hand, and it held these words: “ If you are 
very sure you love me as you say — if, after dreaming me so far 
higher and better than I am, you can bear the awakening — come! 
Oh,- Leo, did you never guess it was for your own sake I sent you 
away ?” 

When Leo reads these lines, his brain reels. Over and over he 
scans them, almost fancying it must be a delusion. Do the gods 
ever grant such utter bliss to a man all at once ? Then he begins 
to make joyful preparation for obeying her summons: he will 
start by the first train to-morrow. True, he has engagements 
for the next two or three days, and no one is more punctual 
or particular than Leo; but once in a man's life he may be 
pardoned for throwing over business and letting love make him 
for the moment inconsiderate of sublunary matters. 

“Hey-day, Leo!” cries his father, coming in at this moment, 


MTGNON. 281 

and seeing liCo’s glad, flushed face. What pleasant piece of 
news have you got there ?” 

“My dearest old dad,” cries the young fellow, grasping his 
father’s hand, and speaking in a voice quick and uncertain from 
delight and excitement, “ I think I am the happiest man in the 
world.” 

“ Then no doubt you are about to be the most miserable,” re- 
plies Mr. Vyner, with acidity. 

“ Pinch me!” cries Leo, in uncontrolled jubilance; “ make me 
quite sure that I am awake!” 

“ You’ll be awake soon enough,” snaps his father, coming in 
like a chorus of a Greek tragedy. 

“ I can’t tell you anything yet. Don’t ask me any questions. 
I’m off to-morrow by the first train, and when I come back, then 
you shall know as much as I do.” 

“ I suppose you are quite oblivious of the fact that Gresham is 
coming to-morrow, and that we have to go over to see Vivian in 
tlie afternoon?” says Mr. Vyner, with latent sarcasm. 

“ It can’t be helped,” says Leo, exultantly. “ For once I am 
going to be unpunctual, impolite, inconsiderate, selfish, every- 
thing I would rather not be at any other time.” 

“That’s right!” remarks Mr, Vyner, dryly, “An excellent 
way to begin your new career. I suppose now that you’ve got 
M.P. tacked on to your name you think it gives you the privilege 
of forgetting that you are a gentleman.” 

Leo is serious in a moment. 

“ I hope I am too much of my father’s son for that, sir. Don’t 
be hard upon me. It concerns the happiness or misery of my 
whole life. I will do everything that is right; no one shall be 
inconvenienced by my neglect; but this once everything must 
give way. “ If you knew ” (grasping his father’s hand and 
speaking with suppressed fire) “ how wretched I have been, and 
how happy I am going to be, you would not say a word to stop 
me.” 

And with this Leo goes out, feeling four walls too narrow for 
his vast happiness. 

“ Poor infatuated lad!” mutters his^ father, gazing after the 
stalwart, retreating form. “ She has done her work well, the 
Jezebel! How befooled, besotted he is! And now the next 
thing, I suppose, will be my fine madam here, turning the house 
out of windows and treating everything and everybody like dirt. 
1*11 lay she’s forty if she’s a day — women don’t get such a hold 
on boys much before that age — and paints herself like a mask. 

I shouldn’t wonder if she’s got that d d golden hair; that sort 

of woman generally has. She’ll have an impudent French maid, 
and a regiment of dye-bottles and paint-pots. I know her!” 
cries the old gentleman, wrathfully, imagining something as 
different from the real Olga as the human mind could well con- 
ceive. 

Olga has received Leo’s brief telegram, “ I shall be with you 
by seven to-moiTow evening.” She does not sleep an hour all 
the night, and when morning comes she is feverish, restless, and 
^o nervous she cannot settle to anything. So she orders her 


282 


MIGNON, 


horse and goes for a brisk gallop. Oli, how the hours crawl and 
creep! was ever a day so long in this world before? At lunch 
she says to Mrs. Forsyth, trying to speak naturally: 

“ Leo Vyner is coming to-night.” 

“ Really ? have you asked him ? Did you expect him ?” 

“ Of course I asked him,” Olga replies, coloring a little as she 
speaks. 

“ I almost wonder he can leave home at such a time,” remarks 
Mrs. Forsyth, dryly. I should have thought he would have so 
much to do.” 

Olga does not make any answer. Mrs. Forsyth is divided 
between curiosity and vexation. Can it be possible that there 
has been anything going on all this time without her knowledge ? 
She had relapsed into a feeling of such perfect security — Leo 
abroad. Lord Harley and Lord Threestars both rejected. “ She 
will never marry now,” Mrs. Forsyth has decided. And here 
the lover she has always dreaded instinctively has returned upon 
the scene, and under the most suspicious circumstances. To be 
coming on a visit to the Manor House at a time when he must 
naturally be so much occupied, when, for an ordinary visit, a 
few weeks later would have made no difference to Olga, and 
would have been far more convenient to him. 

Leo’s train is three-quarters of an hour late; he does not reach 
the Manor House until a quarter to eight. Both ladies are in 
the drawing-room, and he has only just time to exchange hur- 
ried greetings and rush off to dress for dinner. But in the mo- 
ment during 'which he and Olga have clasped hands they have 
understood each other. She is more beautiful, more beloved 
than ever in his eyes, and she feels, by the thrill of joy that 
quivers through her as she looks in his eyes and touches his 
hand, that her heart and her imagination have not played her 
false. Olga has spent more time than usual over her toilet, her 
dress is soft white, covered with delicate lace, and makes her 
look almost girlish. The light of happiness is in her lovely eyes; 
a faint color tinges her cheeks. 

How absurd of her to be so overdressed!” says Mrs. Forsyth, 
crossly, to herself. She does not often find fault with Olga, 
whom she loves most truly, but she is very jealous of her caring 
for any one else. All through dinner she is unusually taciturn: 
her wonted tact seems to have deserted her; but neither Leo nor 
Olga remarks it — they are far too much absorbed in each other. 
Olga does not disdain the gracious coquetries that make a 
woman so charming in the eyes of the man who loves her, and 
Leo, if more self-contained than in the days when his adoring 
glances took Truscott and the footmen into confidence as to his 
feelings, is not always careful to suppress the triumphant fire in 
his eyes. The conversation never flags for a moment: the lips 
of both are bubbling over with happy talk and laughter; to both, 
the happiness, the originality of the situation seems as great as 
to the first man and woman. 

The old charm steals over Leo, the charm of the first day 
when the refined luxury of all the arrangements at the Manor 
House struck the chords of a new sense in him. i\nd to that is 


MIONOK 


283 


added the intoxication of a first and intense love. To him 
Olga is the most perfectly beautiful as well as the most beloved 
woman in the world; there is not one thing in her that is not 
altogether lovely and gracious. And her consciousness of his 
belief in her lends to Olga that exceeding graciousness that the 
belief of the man who loves her always §ives to a charming 
and sympathetic woman. 

Leo waits for a moment after the two ladies leave the room, 
in the hope that Mrs. Forsyth will be as considerate as in days 
of yore, when he had so often blessed and revered her for hej; 
judicious disappearance. His heart throbs as he goes toward 
the drawing-room; the strong arm falters as it turns the handle. 
It need not. Mrs. Forsyth is there, discoursing in a most 
lively wide-awake mood; evidently she has no idea of leaving 
them to themselves. Olga is trying to conceal her chagrin, and 
Leo feels provoked and disappointed. Mrs. Forsyth, who during 
dinner had seemed to take but very mediocre interest in Leo’s 
travels is suddenly seized with an ungovernable curiosity about 
all the places he has visited, the sport he has had, the manners 
and customs of the different nations with whom he has mixed. 
Olga is growing nervous; tho strain is almost more than she 
can bear. At last she takes the law into her own hands. She 
rings the bell, and orders tlie lamps to be lighted in the Folly. 
The last few days have been bright and hot like a return of 
summer; no fear of finding any place in or out of the house 
too cold to-night. Mrs. Forsyth understands, and accepts the 
situation as best she may. So, when Tfuscott comes to an- 
nounce that the Folly is lighted, she asks to be excused accom- 
panying Olga for the present, as (with a yawn and a smile 
that tries to be gracious) she feels her old bad habit stealing 
over her. 

“ Beware of once beginning it, Mr. Vyner,” she says, pleas- 
antly to Leo, but feeling in her heart that she would like to put 
him to a sleep that it would take him a considerable time to 
awaken from. So Olga, with a nervous beating of her heart, 
precedes Leo along the handsome hall, through whose painted 
windows the silvery light fails softly, into the Folly. It is 
lighted just enough to lend a mysterious charm to the scene; here 
and there a lamp sheds a mellow radiance through many-colored 
glass, and from above the moon fails happily upon the plashing 
silver water and velvet moss. Yet, now they are here alone, 
now that the moment has come that is to seal the joy of their 
lives, an enchantment has fallen upon them; both are tongue- 
tied. Is it that they are so joyfully secure of the future that 
they can afford to delay their happiness yet a little space ? Side 
by side they pass together through the grove of orange trees, 
between whose leaves the marble of the statues gleams whitely. 
Presently Olga stops before a rose. Then suddenly Leo takes 
both her little trembling hands in his, and says, in a low, con- 
centrated voice, “ Why did you send for me ?” 

He has no need to ask; no doubt or fear assails his heart; tri- 
umphant joy is written in his glad blue eyes, in every line of his 


284 


MIGNON. 


comely face. And since his question needs no answer, Olga 
gives it none, but in silence lifts her lovely eyes to his. 

Sometimes, in happy dreams, Leo has held his heart’s delight 
in his glad arms, drawing, 

“ In one long kiss, her whole soul through 
Her lips,” 

and has awakened with beating pulse and empty, outstretched 
aftns, crying out her dear name in vain. But to-d^y he no 
longer dreams. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

It is the 9th of May, 1876 — a day with a bright sun and a cut- 
ting wind, such as imbittered the whole spring of this year. 
Lady Clover has wisely decided not to venture out, as she pro- 
poses to attend her majesty’s drawing-room on the morrow. 
Besides, she is expecting a visitor, and his deferred arrival causes 
her to glance impatiently every now and then from her novel to 
the clock on the mantel-piece. True, her book is one of the 
most charming stories ever written, “ The Boudoir Cabal,” but 
there are states of mind that prevent one fixing one’s attention 
on a book that at another time would completely engross us. 
The years that have passed since we last saw her little ladyship 
have only laid the weight of an additional embonpomt upon her 
— a very "becoming one, and not calculated to cause her the least 
anxiety, or any haunting thought of banting. She has a charm- 
ing little air of matronhood that vastly becomes her, and makes 
her, with Jier two lovely children, a very sweet picture. These 
two golden-headed cherubs, lovely enough to have been a study 
for Carlo Dolce or Sir Joshua, are disputing possession of the 
great fur rug, with our old friends Strephon and Chloe, w’ho, 
having come to regard them as necessary evils, tolerate them 
accordingly. 

“ Oopit, oo naughty boy, oo not to pull Koe’s tail!” lisps the 
rosebud mouth of Kitty’s daughter. “ Mamma, cold Oopit.” 

“Rupert, darling, what -are you doing to poor Chloe?” asks 
his mamma. 

“ I doin’ nussin’,” answers Rupert, stoutly. “ Kissy, put her 
finger in Stetfy’s eye,” 

At this moment the bell rings, and general attention is diverted 
to the approach of the expected visitor. The door is i:)romptly 
opened: steps are heard ascending the stairs; a moment later 
“ Mr. L’Estrange ” is announced. 

There ’vvas a time when Kitty, in her indignation, had vowed 
never to speak to Raymond again; but the lapse of years has re- 
moved her resentment, and she greets him with all the effusion 
due to a long-lost prodigal. For his part, his handsome face 
lights up with real pleasure at sight of his old friend, looking 
more lovely and lovable than ever. 

“ What centuries since we met!” cries Kitty. “ I thought you 
were lost to us forever. Stay!” (with a little comedy air, point- 
ing to the hearth-rug), “ I have an introduction to make. ‘ These 
are my jewels V ” 


MIGNOK 


285 


“ The modern Cornelia— black pearls and white/^ laughs Ray- 
mond, advancing to the rug. London life, and an immense 
number of visitors, have cured the pugs of their ferocity to 
strangers: increasing years and stoutness make it inconvenient 
to play a perpetual role of watch-dog. So now men may come 
and men may go with no more notice from them than the lift- 
ing of a sleepy eye, and an occasional grumble as of distant, very 
distant thunder. 

Raymond is not a lover of children, but these two delicious 
morsels of pink and white and gold offer nothing to repel the 
most aversely disposed, and he accepts and returns the salutes 
of two pairs of rosy wet lips with equanimity, if not pleasure. 

wa'hted you to see these darlings,* says the proud mother. 
‘ ' Whom do you think they are like ?” 

“Will you be mortally offended if I don’t see a striking re- 
semblance to their father ?” smiles Raymond. 

“ I suppose they are more like me,” answers Kitty; “though 
my mother-in-law insists they are both quite Clovers. Now you 
have seen them, I won’t bore you with them any longer.” And 
she lays a hand on the bell. 

“ No, no, no,” cries Rupert, running toward her. “ Me top.” 

“ Me top too,” says little Kitty, advancing toward Raymond, 
and raising her clear shining eyes to his face. “ Go is a pitty 
man. Kissy like oo.” 

“ What a bare-faced compliment,” laughs Kitty. “ Now, 
then, darlings, if I let you stop, will you go and sit on the rug 
and.be quiet ?” 

Rupert and Kitty make emphatic promises, which they have 
neither the will nor the power to keep. It is to the benefit of 
the conversation when a few minutes later, nurse comes to fetch 
them to tea, and a judicious hint of some mysterious delicacy 
up-stairs causes them to depart in peace. 

‘ ‘ And what have you been doing all these years ?” asks Kitty, 
wdth friendly interest, as soon as they are alone. 

“ Trying with more or less success to kill time,’* answers Ray- 
mond. 

“ And what are you going to do now? Settle down and be- 
come respectable ?” 

“ Respectability is dull. I confess it has no charms for me.” 

“ I am afraid you are not at all improved,” says Kitty, in a 
reproving tone. “ Who was that very pretty woman I saw you 
with at the opera last night ?” 

“ Oh, that was Mrs. Lascelles. Poor little woman! she has 
an awful brute of a husband; it is quite a charit}^ to be kind 
to her.” 

Kitty arches her eyebrows. 

“ Rather doubtful kindness, I’m afraid, on the part of a hand- 
some young man. So you go about the world championing neg- 
lected wives?” 

“ One should never lose an opportunity of doing a kind 
action,” says Raymond, with something between a smile and a 
sneer, 

“But tell me,” asks Kitty, “do you still intend to lead tins 


286 MIGNON. 

wandering life ? Don’t you ever mean to come back to Blank- 
shire ?” 

“ You know the house is let for three years,” he answers. 
“ There is no inducement for me to go back now my poor mother 
is dead. I had the letters telling me of her illness and death to- 
gether, and then T was thousands and thousands of miles away 
from England. Poor mother!” And Raymond’s brow clouds 
for a moment with sincere regret. 

“ It was very sad,” says Kitty, sympathetically. But do you 
still mean to live abroad ? — do vou really like it better than Eng- 
land ?” 

“ Indeed I do. I make Paris my headquarters; I hav^ a large 
acquaintance there, and I find French society a great deal more 
to my taste than English.” 

“ How unpatriotic of you! And how about sport?” 

“ I have as much as I want ; but I am not as keen about it as I 
used to be.” 

“ One of these days you will bring home a French wife, I sup- 
pose ?” 

“God forbid!” answers Raymond, devoutly. “I shall never 
marry.” 

“ So I have heard many men say.” 

“ A wife is a charming thing, no doubt,” says Raymond, “ but 
I am not sure that she always confers the greatest good in the 
sphere in which it is intend^ that she shall.” 

“ I am ashamed of you, Raymond. Have you taken up the 
present fashion of reviling women ?” 

“ On the contrary, I adore them. But I think they are very 
much the creatures of circumstance.” 

Before so charming a member of the sex as Lady Clover, Ray- 
mond is not tempted to air his damaging theories about women. 
He has been very bitter against them ever since the Marquise de 
C., the woman with such infinite tact, such charming, caressing 
manners, threw him over. Truth to tell, Raymond’s good looks 
were not a sufficient makeweight for his exactions and his per- 
verse temper, and when he wearied her she gave him his conge 
remorselessly. Since then, Raymond has written bitter things of 
women in his heart, and rarely fails to air his scorn and contempt 
of them, though, like many revilers of the sex, he is seldom out 
of their society, and one of his greatest grievances against them 
is that they are not so bad as he would have them. 

“ Tell me all the Blankshire news,” he says, and Kitty, putting 
her hand to her head, in an attitude of reflection, says: 

“You must be in such tremendous arrears, I hardly know 
where to begin. Of course you know all about Olga's mar- 
riage ?” 

“I know’ she did marry, but there my knowledge ends. It 
must be nearly three years, I think, since I had a wdld, inco 
hereiit letter from Leo about his bliss, his rapture, and his un- 
w’orthiness. I suppose he desillusioyine long before this.” 

“Indeed he is not!” cries Kitty, energetically; “ he is the most 
utterly devoted husband 1 ever knew ; it is positively enraging 
tiometimes to see how he adores her.” 


MIGNON. 


m 

‘‘ Why?” asks Raymond, “ Do you not like her?” 

'‘Of course I do. J lovelier. Does not everyone? But it 
makes one so envious to see a woman put on a pedestal and 
adored as if she were a goddess. Whenever I have been with 
them, I always come home and lead poor Jo a dreadful life, and 
tell him that he does not care a bit for me.” 

“ And what does he sa}" to that?” 

Kitty assumes a slow, solemn manner, mimicking her husband 
to the life. 

“ ‘ My dear,’ he says, ‘ no doubt it is very charming to be de- 
monstratively adored by a fine, handsome young fellow like Mr. 
Vyner: but don’t you think if a steady-going, middle-aged man 
like myself were to attempt those blandishments, it would 
rather remind you of an elephant attempting to prance like a 
horse ?’ There’s a good deal in that, you know,” says 'Kitty, 
mischievously, resuming her natural voice. “But seriously, 1 
think Olga is the happiest, the most enviable woman in the 
world; and you can’t think how young she looks— not a day 
older than when you last saw her. And though she is not at all 
demonstrative in public, it is easy to see how fond and proud 
she is of hirh. He made his maiden speech in Parliament this 
year, a very good one, indeed, and Lord B. tells me they look 
upon him as a very rising man. Both he and Olga have their 
heads full of Quixotic ideas about benefiting their fellow-creat- 
ures, but it seems to make them extremely happy.” 

“ It was a great thing for Leo, marrying a woman with a lot 
of money,” remarks Raymond. 

“ So any sensible person would think,” cries Kitty; “ but he 
is such a goose that it has been quite a trouble to him. It is the 
only thing they ever quarreled about. He insisted on every 
farthing being settled upon her, and won’t touch it. His father 
allows him fifteen hundred a year, and though he loves Olga to 
live sumptuously, and have beautiful horses, and be perfectly 
dressed, he will have nothing to do with her money himself. 
Did you ever meet old Mr. Vyner ?” 

“ Oh, yes; I knew him very well.” 

“ Well, he is almost as much in love with her as his son; and 
the most amusing part of it is, he conceived the greatest horror 
of her before he saw her. He is never tired of telling me what a 
horrid painted creature he expected to see, and how he fell in 
love with Olga the first time he saw her.” 

“What a happy family!” utters Raymond, with a curl of his 
handsome lip. “But what has become of Mrs. Forsyth? it must 
have been a bad lookout for her.” 

“ I need not tell you Olga did everything that was liberal and 
generous. In the first place, she settled a handsome annuity 
upon her. Then she is frequently with them; when Olga spends 
the usual three months at Mr. Vyner’s place, she lives at tl:he 
Manor House, and has always free quarters in Curzon Street. 
Of course she did not like it at first; but she was sensible enough 
to make the best of it. You know Olga has a little daughter, I 
suppose ?” 

“ I did not know it.” 


MIQNON, 


m 

“ The most lovely little creature you can iniagine, with her 
mother’s great brown eyes, and her father’s golden hair. Olga 
Catherine, my goddaughter, and betrothed to Rupert ” (laugh- 
ing). “But when she was a few weeks old, poor Olga nearly 
died. I was with her, and I thought Leo would have gone out 
of his mind; he was like one distraught. One day he came into 
my room, and, grasping both my hands, said, with tears in his 
eyes, ‘ Oh, Lady Clover, pray to God to spare my darling! Per- 
haps he will hear you. What shall I .do if I lose her ? what shall 
I do?’ ” 

“ I did not know that was Leo’s line,” says Raymond, with a 
little sneer. “He used not to be celebrated for his piety.” 

“I don’t know that he is particularly religious,” answers 
Kitty. “ But don’t you think” (a little shyly, a certain dimness 
veiling her blue eyes) “ that when one is in awful trouble, one’s 
impulse is to go for help where one knows it can be given ?” 

“ Perhaps,” says Raymond, in an indifferent tone, and Kitty’s 
momentary pathos takes flight. 

“ And do you think this violent love is warranted to last ?” he 
asks. “ It does not generally stand much wear and tear. And 
it is always rather a dangerous experiment, a man marrying a 
woman older than himself.” 

“Yes,” admits Kitty, “ generally speaking it is. But there 
seems such perfect sympathy between these two, and you know 
Olga is a woman in a thousand.” 

“Granted; but you will see Leo will be breaking out one of 
these days. ” 

“Is it your creed that, as no women are good, no men are 
faithful ?” asks Kitty, with some asperity. 

“ Men have a great many temptations,” answers Raymond, 
evasively. “But” (turning the subject, and speaking with a 
shade of hesitancy) “ I have some other neighbors of yours to 
ask after — the Bergholts.” 

Kitty has always declared stoutly that if she should ever have 
the chance she will tax Raymond with his behavior to Mignon. 
But here is the very opportunity, and yet she feels no desire to 
take advantage of it. She only says: 

“ They are very well.” 

“ Has Lady Bergholt quite recovered from her accident ?” 
asks Raymond in the polite but indifferent tone with which one 
makes an inquiry after a casual acquaintance. 

“ It is hardly perceptible now,” answers Lady Clover. “ But 
she can never be persuaded to believe it. One side of her face 
is still exquisitely lovely, and it is only a little peculiarity of ex- 
pression that prevents the other being the same, for unless you 
are close the scars are hardly visible, I often hear people ad- 
mire her immensely, and it was only the other day Colonel Gray 
said to me: ‘ What a lovely creature Lady Bergholt is! I never 
saw a woman I should like more to whisper soft nothings to ’ 
(you know his droll way), ‘ but she always makes me sit half a 
mile off, and many things which are charming, uttered in a low 
key, lose considerably by being bawled upon the housetop or 
half way across a room.’ ” 


MIGNON. 


289 


Her sensitiveness about her appearance must be a great 
comfort and safeguard to her husband,” utters Raymond, with a 
veiled sneer. 

“ Yes,” answers Kitty, with spirit, “ they are very happy, very 
happy indeed; he worships her, and she is really very fond of 
him. You know she was never very demonstrative or warm in 
manner, but what affection she has she certainly divides between 
him and her brother. Young Carlyle has exchanged into the 
guards, and lives with the Bergholts almost entirely. He is a 
charming young fellow; women do their utmost to spoil him, 
but they don’t succeed, and not one of them ever makes him 
neglect his sister.” 

“ How touching!” 

‘‘ Yes, it is touching to see the love of both those men for her. 
I do not believe she has a wish ungratihed if they can procure 
its accomplishment.” 

“And does Lady Bergholt still crush her friends with her 
frank remarks ? is she as sweet-tempered as formerly ?” 

The color mounts to Kitty’s cheeks. She feels thoroughly in- 
dignant with Raymond for the manner in which he is speaking 
of a woman for whom he once professed so deep a passion. 

‘ ‘ I should hardly have thought you would have so keen a 
memory for her failings,” she says, in a reproachful tone. 
“ Time was when words were too poor in your eyes to express 
her manifoJd charms and graces. If one has a kind heart when 
one’s friends fall into misfortune one is more apt to dwell upon 
their good points than their bad ones, I think.” 

As the little lady utters this dignified reproof, her blue eyes 
glisten with tears, and her cheeks glow with a delicate pink, like 
the heart of a blush-rose. 

“I bow to your correction,” says Raymond, a little stiffiy. 
“ But still, tell me all the same whether she indulges in the 
gentle asperities with which she was wont to ecrasei' one in the 
good old days.” 

“No,” replies Kitty, with warmth; “she is immensely im- 
proved. She rarely says a sharp thing now, and people often 
remark what a graceful, distinguished manner she has. I think 
a great deal of it is due to Olga.” 

“ To Olga!” exclaims Raymond, looking surprised. “ Why, I 
thought they w^ere sworn foes!” 

“Oh, yes, once she hated Olga; but when she was in trouble 
Olga nursed her, and behaved like an angel to her. One is 
always grateful, I think ” (with a Parthian glance at Raymond), 
“ to people who are good to one when one is in sore need of their 
kindness.” 

Raymond winces a little, but makes no answer. 

“ She does a great deal for the poor,” continues Kitty, warmly; 
“ not very much in the way of going to see them, but whenever 
she hears of any one in trouble or distress, she is always ready 
and glad to help them. So perhaps, after all (though I always 
think it is a horrid, hypocritical thing to pretend to see good in 
other people’s misfortunes), her life is happier and better than it 
might have been under other circumstances.” 


m 


MIGNON. 


“All’s well that ends well,” says Raymond. “ So, according 
to your story, every one was happy ever after.” 

“ Yes,” laughs Kitty; “the good people were happy ever after, 
and the wicked one was punished.” 

“ Who is the wicked one?” asks Raymond, laughing. “ My- 
self?” 

“ Yes,” says Kitty, with an arch nod of her golden head. 

“ And how am I punished ?” 

“ By being left out in the cold, and having no nice wife to take 
care of you, and make you happy.” 

“I confess,” says Rajmiond, “the dish of domestic bliss that 
you have served up for me seems so appetizing, I am half 
tempted to rush into matrimony at once.” 

“ No,” says Kitty, shaking her head, “ you are not a man to 
make a good husband or to be happy with a wife.” 

“ How do you know, pray, my lady?” 

Kitty answers him, half laughing, half serious: 

“ You are one of the wicked ones who, for some unknown pur- 
pose, are allowed to go about the world , turning the heads of 
foolish women with your handsome face and deceitful tongue, 
and bringing trouble "and discord to the domestic hearth.” 

“ May I ask how you have learned so much to my disad- 
vantage?” asks Raymond, halting between amusement and 
pique. 

“ Oh, you are not at all an uncommon type of man,” says Kitty, 
with an air of superior wisdom; “ there are a good many of you 
going about the world just now: I meet you often. You all talk 
in the same kind of way; you all affect to think ill of women, 
and yet you are never happy out of their society; and you all 
have those discontented lines about your eyes and mouth.” 

Raymond rises and contemplates himself with extreme de- 
liberation in the mirror over the chimney-piece. 

“ Now you mention it,” he says, smiling, “ perhaps I’m not a 
particularly beaming-looking fellow. Well, Kitty — let me call 
you so once, for the sake of old times— I have paid you an un- 
conscionably long visit. Am I really in your black books, or may 
I come again ?” 

“ Of course you may. Come often. I shall try to reform 
you.” 

“I wish you would,” he says, bending on her the look and 
speaking in the tones so many women have found irresistible. 
It has become such a habit with him to make love to pretty 
women that he has fallen unconsciously into it with Kitty. She 
gives a gay laugh. 

“ Nay, Raymond,” she says, “it is I who am to reform you, 
not you who are to use your seductive graces upon me. I 
am an old married woman, not one of the flighty young ma- 
trons of the day.” 

“ I need not ask if you are happy, I suppose ?” says Raymond, 
laughing too. 

“ Look at me,” she cries saucily , “ and form your own opinion. 
I have the kindest, most indulgent husband in the world: I have 
only to ask and have: you have seen my four jewels, the two 


MIONON. 


m 


white and the two black ones, and I defy you to produce any- 
thing more perfect in their way. Yes, I am very happy. I 
should be perfectly if ” 

‘‘ If!” echoes iiaymond. “ So you have an if, too!” 

‘‘If I hadn’t a mother-in-law,” replies Lady Clover, with an 
arch smile. “One hears a great deal about what men suffer 
from their wife’s mother, but I never hear any sympathy given 
to the unfortunate wife about her husband’s mother. Poor dear 
soup she means well, but she is certainly the thorn to the rose. 
I quarrel with her sometimes just for the sake of getting rid of 
her; but then poor dear Jo has to go and humiliate himself ab- 
jectly before her, so for his sake I don’t do it very often.” 

“ And how is Sir Josias? I have been rude enough not to ask 
after him all this time.” 

“ Oh, he is perfectly well, and tremendously busy about the 
Permissive Bill. He made quite a long snee^h in the House two 
or three nights ago.” 

Good-bye,” says Raymond, kissing her hand, and she receives 
his homage with the air of a little queen. 

A few minutes later. Sir Josias apj)ears in the doorway. 

“ Well, my love?” he exclaims, in affectionate though not 
original salutation. 

“ Come here, Jo,” says his sovereign lady, graciously. “ I 
have had a man here — an exceedingly handsome man ; he was 
here quite two hours, I should think (looking at the clock). “ I 
have flirted desperately with him; when he went away he kissed 
my hand. Just there, see ” (holding out a fairy, dimpled hand): 
“ if you look quite close, you will see it is a little pink still.” 

Sir Josias, smiling with perfect imperturbability, kisses her 
cheek. 

“ Really, Jo,” cries the little lady, with affected pettishness, 
“it is evident you do not set the" least value upon me. Can 
nothing make you jealous ?” 

“No, my dear,” he says, turning upon her a look in which 
love and confidence are perfectly united — “ nothing.” 


[the end.] 






many a family has been r9.ised by the gesnnine philantroph^ cd 
modem progress and of modern opportunities. But many peO|^ do 
not avail of them. They jog along in their old ways until aio 
8ta<^ fast in a mire of hopeless dirt. Friends desert them, ferthey 
have already deserted themselves by neglecting their own best aastereste. 
O^of the dirt of Mtehen, or hall or parlor, any house can be quic^y 
feoaght by the nseof Sapolio which is sold by all grocers at IGc. a cake« 

■SOCIAL SOLUTIONS 

{Solutions Sociedes). 

B;> M. a-ODiisr, 

FemnUer of the Familisthjf at Guise; Prominent Leader of Industries in 
France and Belgium- ; MemOer of the National Assembly. 

TRANSLATi^iJ FR®M THE FRENCH BY 

MAEIE HOWLAND. 


t voL, f2mo, illustrated, cloth gilt, $1.50. 


An admirable English translation of M. Godin’s statement of the 
course of study which led him to conceive the Social Palace at Guise, 
France. There is no question that this publication will mark an ersw 
in the growth of the labor question. It should serve as the manual for 
organized labor in its present contest, since its teachings will as surely 
lead to the destruction of the wages system as the abolition movement 
lead to that of chattel slavery. 


JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 and 16 Vesey Street ^ NEW YOICJlL^ 



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EVER INVENTED. 

Ifo La»dy« Married 09 
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695 Wedded and Parted 10 

700 In Cupid’s Net 10 

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718 A Gilded Sin 10 

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587 Ways of the Hour 20 

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429 Called Back 15 

462 Dark Days 15 

612 Carriston’s Gift 10 

617 Paul Vargas ; a Mystery. 10 

631 A Family Affair 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor 10 

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315 Winifred Power 20 

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604 Sidonie 20 

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645 The Nabob 25 

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I BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 

431 Life of Spenser 10 

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475 A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing 20 

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704 Evolution 20 


6 The Last of the Mohicans 

53 The Spy 

365 The Pathfinder 

378 Homeward Bound 

441 Home as Found 

483 The Deerslayer. 

467 The Prairie ............. • . . , . 

471 The Pioneer . , » . . ^ 

Tlid Two -c ^ ^ ■ 


« t) 


20 

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Barnaby Budge, 2 Parts, each 15 

David Copperfield, 2 Parts, each 20 

Hard Times 20 

Great Expectations 20 

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American Notes 20 

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Molly Bawn 20 

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Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

Loys, Lord Beresford 20 

Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

Faith and Unfaith 20 

Beauty’s Daughters 20 

Rossmoyne 20 

Doris 20 

A Week in Killarn^y 10 

In Durance Vile 10 

Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “ O JTender 

Dolores” 20 

A Maiden all Forlorn 10 

A Passive Crime 10 

Lady Branksmere 20 

A Mental Struggle 20 

The Haunted Chamber 10 

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Count of Monte Oristo, Part 1 20 

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681 A Girton Girl 20 

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203 IMsarmed 15 

663 Tne Flower of Doom 16 

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56 Adam Bede, 2 Parts, each. 15 

69 Amos Barton ,....10 

71 Silas Marner 10 

79 Romqla, 2 Parts, each 15 

149 Janet’s Repentance 10 

151 Felix Holt 20 

174 Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20; 

195 Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

205 The Spanish Gypsy, Jubal,and other 
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207 The Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, each. 15 

208 Brother Jacob, etc 10 

374 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 

Book 20 

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EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

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407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp iO 

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413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward 10 

424 Cowper, by Goldwin Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morison 10 

225 Goldsmith, by William Black. ...... 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie Stephen 10 

380 Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

892 Milton, by Mark Pattison 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Hutton 10 

361 Shelley, by J. Symonds in 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden 10 

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344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope ... 10 

410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 

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ows 20 

654 Love’s Harvest 20 

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473 Christmas Stories 20 

BY F. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

19 Seekers after God ,20 

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BY MBS. FOBBBSTtl 

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LOVELL’S 


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'Z30 Romance of a Young Girl, by Clay.20 

T^l Leig-hton Court, by Kingsley ,20 

7^2 Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. 20 
738 A Qaeen amongst Women, by Clay. 10 
T^4 Vineta, by E. Werner. 20 

735 A Mental Struggle, The Duchess,. 20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn, by H. Kingoiey..30 
7137 The Haunted Chamber, “Duchess’MO 

738 A Golden Dawn, by B. M. Clay 10 

739 Like no Other Love, by B. M, Clay. 10 

740 A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay .20 

741 Loritner and Wife, by Margaret Lee.20 

742 Social Solutions No. 1, by Howland. 10 

743 A Wuman’s Vengeance, by Holmes. 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

745 Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway.. 20 

746 Boaton’s Bargain, Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

747 Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland.lO 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin.. .20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy . . 20 

750 Somebody's Story, by Hugh Conway.lO 

751 King Arthur, by Miss Mu lock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay.... 20 

753 Social Solutions, No. 3, by Howland.lO 

754 A Modern Midas, by Maurice Jokai.20 

755 A Fallen Idol, by F. Ansley 20 

756 Conspiracy, by Adam Badcaii..., .25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by F. Warden 10 

758 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray. ..10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

760 Fair Women, by Mrs. Forrester. .. .20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Social Solutions, No. 4, by Howland.lO 

763 Moths, by Ouida 20 

764 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay. 20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howland.lO 

760 Vixen, by Miss Braddon 20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson.. . .20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde, by R. L. Stevenson. . 10 

769 Prince Otto, by II. L. Stevenson. . .10 

770 The Dynamiter, by R. L. Stevenson. 20 

771 The Old Mam’seile’s Secret, by E. 

Marlitt 20 

772 Mysteiies of Paris, Part I., by Sue.20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part II., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade. 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, by Dumas. 20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 The W andering Jew. Part II., bvSue.20 

777 A Second Life, by Mrs. Alexander.20 

778 Social Solutions, No. 7, by How land.lO 

779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris . .10 


780 Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart 10 

781 Betty’s Visions, by Broughton. , . : .15 


782 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 

783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon.. . .20 

784 Les Miserables, Part I., by Hugo.. 20 
784 Les Miserables, Part II., by Hugo. 20 
784 Les Miserable.? , Part 1 1 1 . , by Hugo . 20 


785 Social Solutions, No. 0, by Howland. U 

786 Twenty Years After, ny Dumas 2(1 

787 A Wicked Girl, by Mary Cecil Hay .10 

788 Social Solution>,No. 10, by Howland. 10 

789 Charles O’Malley, P’t I., by Lever. 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, P’t II., by Lever. 20 

790 Othmar, by Ouida 20 

791 Social Solutions, No. 11, by Rowland. 10 

792 Her Week’s Amusement, by The 

Duchess” 1() 

793 New Arabian Nights, by Stevenson. 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, P’t 1 , by Lever.20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, P't II., by Lever.20 

795 Social Solutions.No.l2, byliowland.lU 

796 Property in Land, by Henry Georg* .13 

797 A Phantom Lover by Vernon Lee. 10 
VJS The Prince of the Hundred Soups, 


by Vernon Lee 10 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow ? by .Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

800 Thorns and Orange Blossoms, by 

B. M. Clay 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil, by Clay. 10 

802 Lady Vahvorth’s Diamonds.. 10 

803 Love’s Warfare, by B. M. Clay 10 

804 Madolin’s Lover, by B. M. Clay 2l) 

805 A House Party, by Ouida 10 

806 From Out the Gloom, by Clay.. . . .^.O 

807 Which Loved Him Best? by Oiay. . JU 

808 A True Magdalen, by B. ivf. Clay. .2O 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime, by Clay 20 

810 Prince Charlie’s Daughter, by Clay. 10 

811 A Golden Heart, by B. j\l. CLiy....jO 

812 Wife in Name Only, by B. M. Clay . 20 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 


814 Mohawks, by Miss M. E. Braddon. 20 
81^ A Woman’s Error, by B. M. Clay. .26 

816 The Broken Seal, by Dora Russtdl 20 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince, by 

Commander Lovett-Cameron 20 

818 Once Again, by Mrs. Forrester... .20 

819 Treasure Island, by Stevenson 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s W edding, I'y Carleton. 10 

821 Larry McFarland’s VVako, by Wil- 

liam Carleton lO 

822 The Party Fight and Finieral, by 

William Carleton 10 

823 The Midnight Mass, by Caileton. ..iO 

824 Phil Puree), by William Carleton. 10 

825 An Irish Oath, by Carleton 10 

826 Going I0 May uooih, bv Carleton ..10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Conn f hip, by 

Willi, im Carleton 10 

S23 Dominick the Poor Scho ar, by 
William Carleton.. . 10 

829 Neal Malone, by William Carletcii..lO 

830 Twilight Club Tracts, by Wingate. 20 

831 The Son of Dis Father. by Oliphant.^O 

832 Sir Percival, by J. H. Shorthouse..l0 

833 A Voyage to the Cape, by •Russell . .20 

834 Jack’s Courtship, by Russell 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart, by Russell. 20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head, by Russell, . . 20 

837 Marked ‘Tn Haste,” by Roosevelt. . 20 


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